On The Ground
by BakaGrappler
Summary: As the great war rages, the fiercest fighting will always be where enemies can look each other in the eyes as they try to kill each other. Follow the Troopers fighting the isolated battles in a war that continues to devastate a galaxy.
1. After The Bloodshed

**Chapter 1 – After the Bloodshed**

The atmosphere of the second planet around the unnamed system's star is breathable, but thin enough to cause altitude sickness within minutes, even with trained Troopers like Privates Dillon Gauss and Kil Sammek. That is why they are both still wearing their helmets so long after the conclusion of the battle while they pace the field. A field with an inordinately large number of dead Republic and Imperial soldiers considering the size of the planet, smaller than most moons and not worth colonizing because of the world's very thin ecosystem.

Due to the rapidly shifting currents of the war with the Sith Empire, this spitball of a planet found itself near enough to the front line for military intelligence to decide it was worth setting up a supply base. That was why a full company of Troopers, over a hundred men and women, had been dispatched to rapidly build and secure a ground base for use in the long term push into the Empire's lines a few sectors further in.

That was also why a covert drop force of over two hundred Imperials had landed on the unnamed ball of dirt to try and take the base. The surviving lieutenant thinks it's because the Empire wanted to ambush any damaged frigates that limped in for repairs.

It had been a close battle, but the Troopers had pulled through, though half their number had died, and half of the remainder are wounded. That is why Dillon and Kil were the only two assigned to sweep for survivors, because everyone else is occupied.

Cradling a standard issue rifle in a ready firing position, Kil continues his story. "So you can see why I didn't want to inherit the family business. My little sister is the mechanic, not me. I only know how to hold my own in a brawl. So I became a soldier. Play to your strengths, right?"

"I suppose," replies Dillon as he automatically studies his companion, despite the fact that Kil is wearing the regular faceless and anonymous full head helmet that all the Troopers wear. Kil has always had a very non-threatening demeanor, and a face that matched. If anything, Kil's face had the uncanny knack of making him look scraggly, which was anything but the case after he'd bulked up in the training camp. But even now, if you saw only Kil's face and not his full figure you'd assume he was scrawny. That's probably why he'd gotten so good at fist fighting, a man looking like that has to hold his own at the bar. Dillon had once seen him take three guys single handed.

Dillon could have easily jumped in on that fight himself. Even though he's ten centimeters shorter than Kil, he's got broader shoulders and is quite proud of his quick uppercut. Dillon is also left faceless by his helmet, though he has a rather unusual shade of hair, a blond so dirty that it seems like a light brown that contrasts with his dark brown eyes.

"So how about you, Dillon? Why did you sign up with-" Kil cuts himself off and jumps onto a completely different line of thought. "Hey, I think we got a live one. Right there."

Dillon carefully moves toward the indicated remains of a Republic Trooper on the ground while Kil stays back on watch. A trooper minus a forearm lopped off by a Sith lightsaber and a helmet faceplate smashed in like it was struck by a pile driver. Dillon tentatively asks his companion if he's sure the man is alive.

"Nope," comes Kil's quick reply, "but I think I saw his head wiggle."

After doing a quick check on the armor's life support function, Dillon confirms that this unlikely set of remains has some life in it yet and opens a closed band communication to the two sentries stationed near the supply depot, using hand gestures to further indicate the wounded trooper. After one of the sentries begins hoofing it over, Dillon and Kil start moving again. With the momentary distraction gone, Dillon and Kil are back on their assigned duty.

Their job is to sweep for survivors, not search for the wounded.

After the sound of Dillon's blaster striking a motionless Imperial soldier in the chest fades, Kil starts talking again. "Think he'll pull through? The trooper."

"Dunno," replies Dillon, who is always oddly laid back and accepting of what happens around him. "Aside from losing his gun arm, his status readout said he'd suffered some pretty bad damage to the skull. His face is probably jelly. Those Force powers hit hard."

The end of Dillon's statement is punctuated with another blaster shot from the Imperial rifle he'd picked up. No sense in wasting Republic ammo on a job like this.

"So who was it? Was he in our squad?"

Kil's question catches Dillon off guard for a moment, the sense of humanity having been necessarily drained out of him for the sake of following the sanguine order he'd been given. Kil's sense of what is human is still mostly intact since he only has to follow Dillon around, his job being to shoot anything that shoots Dillon. After thinking for a moment, Dillon answers the question. "I don't think I checked. But if he survives we'll know who it was in a month or so."

"Why a month?"

"Well..." Dillon blasts two more Sith corpses in the short space of time it takes to dwell on his timeline. "A couple days treatment on a medical frigate for the wounds, and a week for him to recover his strength, I think they call it getting in 'stable condition.' And let's say two weeks for a mechanical hand and putting his face back together. And after that, he'll be sent right back to us for active service, where we can see who it was in the flesh."

"So you don't think he'll be discharged?" asks Kil, gingerly stepping over a corpse with a freshly smoldering hole in it's chest.

"Not if he's still got a good eye left. We need all the troopers we can get." Not waiting for Kil's certain affirmative response, Dillon blasts another Imperial soldier on the ground, this one reacting with a sharp galvanic jerk, causing both troopers to take a step back.

Kil cries out reactively, "Whoa! Good one! Sucker would have gotten past us if we weren't being so thorough." After agreeing, Dillon blasts the Imperial twice more and moves on. Kil quickly gets back into his conversational mindset. "So, about what I was gonna ask before, what made you decide to volunteer to be shot at?"

Dillon's tone becomes a little lighter and slightly wistful as he takes his leisurely time in answering Kil's question. "Well, I'm pretty much a farm kid. Born and raised on an agriculture world. Everyone was open and giving with each other since we couldn't really survive any other way. You know, one guy raises meat, another farms vegetables, and we share in order to have a proper meal, right?" Kil gives an automatic nod, even though Dillon wasn't waiting for it. "Well, I was a kid when the war started, who didn't even know what 'dishonesty' was yet, and then I hear the news that those systems changed sides, trapping the Republic fleet in between them. You remember that?"

Dillon pauses this time, not because he was waiting for Kil to give an answer, which he did since everyone had heard of the defection of the Belkadan, Sernpidal, and Ruuria systems. He paused because the memory of that news flash and how it had affected the dinner table and the mood of the town he lived in made him angry all over again. Angry enough to be able to enjoy blasting the next half dozen corpses.

"You know, learning about betrayal on such a huge scale as that... It leaves a mark. As soon as I was old enough to be accepted, I signed up and left my homeworlds."

"Homeworlds..." repeats Kil. "I still don't get it, Dillon. How can you have two homeworlds. It doesn't make sense."

Dillon pauses for a moment before pulling the trigger on another body to give Kil a look that was, from the tip of the helmeted head, akin to looking at a grown man that can't remember how to walk for more than thirty minutes at a time. After pulling the trigger, Dillon starts his well worn explanation over again. "You know I'm from the binary planets of Tarill and Tyrill, right?"

After the slightly annoyed affirmative, Dillon continues. "Well, Tarill and Tyrill orbit each other, like two moons in exactly opposite orbits without the planet in between. They have the same ecosystem, same atmospheres, and they're only a quick shuttle ride away from each other by the transit system. So there's no point in pretending the people on Tyrill are any different from the ones on Tarill, and vice versa. Especially since we all have family on the other world, just about."

Dillon's borrowed rifle makes a clunk sound as the ammunition in the blaster runs out. Dropping it like the disposable commodity it is in a place strewn with so many ownerless weapons, Dillon flexes his right hand to work the kinks out as Kil stoops to pick up and toss a replacement Imperial rifle. Republic rifles have the recoil kick up and into the shoulder, allowing more accurate aim once you've grown use to dealing with the shock. These Sith rifles recoil much lower and partially into the firing hand, making them easier to use, but putting a lot of pressure on the same muscles over and over again. This small difference just acts as another reminder of how different these two warring peoples are.

Catching the Imperial rifle and quickly righting its alignment, Dillon blasts the next body with a red bolt as he continues. "So yeah, we're all so close with one another that we Rillians think of both planets as home. Especially when we have the Ecliptic Festivals."

Kil's interest is finally piqued, as this is the first time he'd heard this part, and forces Dillon to explain more.

"Well, you know how Tyrill and Tarill orbit one another?" Dillon says this as if it was the first time the subject of their orbit had arisen. "That means that every day one of the planets partially eclipses the sun for the other. Well, it's the Ganet star, but we call it the sun. So we have a partial eclipse every day, see? But every half a cycle, down to the hour, one of the planets does a full eclipse of the sun, and we throw a party on the planet that gets to see the eclipse. Then we relocate to the other for the second full eclipse to round out the day."

"Twice a cycle?" asks Kil, making sure he has it right, but Dillon misunderstands and begins using the stock of the Sith rifle as a reference point for the star Ganet, and his left hand begins gesturing as if explaining orbital paths to a child. "Yeah, twice a cycle. See, the first time Tyrill is eclipsed first, and the second time it's Tarill, since we're on the opposite side of the sun."

"I get it, I get it" cried Kil, slapping Dillon on the shoulder to get him to stop. "I'm not an idiot. You know, I'm surprised I never heard of your 'homeworlds' before now, with that strange gravity well of yours. You'd think scientists would name it one of the miracles of the universe."

"Well actually, we do have a science outpost on both planets to study the effect. They've been nearly abandoned for centuries now and we put our own home grown scientists in there these days, watching for grav storms and the like. Weather forecasting would be the right term, I think. But we're more backwater than you'd think. We only get the occasional big game hunter as tourists."

"Hunters? You got something worth hunting?"

"One thing, yeah, it's the..."

Dillon's voice trails off, and so does Kil's attention. It makes sense considering what their sweep has brought them to. In front of the troopers is their sergeant, kneeling in the turf awkwardly. His remains at least. Perfectly balanced on three points, a grounded knee, an outstretched foot, and a vice like grip on the wrist of a Sith force user, his right hand still holding the lightsaber and the corpse just as perfectly balanced. Two men's remains perfectly poised against each other to remain half upright.

"I saw it happen, you know." Kil's voice is a little hollow as he shares the event behind the oddly beautiful sight. "That Sith was cutting through us left and right, you know how deadly they are once they're in close. Then Sergeant Menshett steps into an opening after the Sith had completed a swing, I could have sworn he'd make it. But instead of a backswing the Sith stabbed him, right in the chest." Kil pauses to indicate the hole through both sides of the armor, open air in between.

"I can't imagine how much it hurt, having your flesh vaporized like that. But the sergeant didn't slow down. He grabbed the Sith's arm, pulled him in, off balance, and blasted away into the Sith's chest, point blank. I heard the sergeant's last words as he and the Sith went down together. 'That all you Sithies got?'"

"That's just like him," says Dillon, his first smile in hours covered by the helmet as he steps in to get a closer look at the tangled enemies. The holes in the Sith's chest make it obvious that Dillon won't have to "make sure" that he's dead. But the more interesting sight is that both men are still gripping their weapons, the sergeant with his rifle in a lax position, the Sith with his lightsaber deactivated but still pointed right at the hole in the sergeants chest. Gulping hard, Dillon bows to an odd feeling welling up deep inside and starts trying to free the lightsaber from the tight grip caused by a traumatic death and rigor mortis.

"What are you doing?" asks Kil, obviously worried.

Successfully pulling the lightsaber free without toppling the balance of the entwined warriors, Dillon replies. "I'm getting a souvenir to remind me of the sarge. That these Sith, though they're tough, can still be killed as long as you're stubborn enough. Besides, this is probably the only chance I'll have to grab a memento of this place before we leave."

Dillon also always wanted to hold one of those lightsaber contraptions just once. Everyone in the Republic grows up on tales of the Jedi, after all. But yeah, this is the only chance Dillon will have of grabbing something worthwhile from this place. The division that Dillon and Kil belong to, the 1081st, is pulling out of this location. Seems the fleet this outpost was suppose to supply fared pretty poorly, and the entire push has been cancelled. The soonest a ship can reach them from the front lines is in thirty hours. The remaining lieutenant is planning to have everyone off world and moving at light speed in less than twenty four, with all supplies intact and detonating the structures remotely from orbit. All hands are going to be working non-stop to make it happen.

Turning the lightsaber over and over, looking at the oddly undecorated tube with a few spare blocky parts jutting out near one end, Dillon finds the activation switch. With a snap hiss, the blade extends in a ruby light with an omnipresent hum.

"You sure it's okay to be playing with that thing, Dillon? Hey! Watch where you swing that!"

With an embarrassed apology, Dillon releases the activation switch and the blade retracts with that strange upward sliding tone, and then stows his souvenir in a small supply bag on his belt. Dillon was happy to put it away. Holding that thing felt like holding a viper by the tail. You never knew when you would get struck and you know it would only be your fault when it happens. While Kil was understandably annoyed at almost being hit by an experimental swing of the lightsaber it only took a few steps for him to not only forgive Dillon, but to strike up the conversation where it left off.

"So you have hunters come to your world? Worlds. What do you have that's worth being a trophy?

"Ah? Well, we do have the Rillian Mountain Cat. It's a two brained predator that can really take a chunk-"

"Wait, two brains!"

Dillon responds with a look and a tone of voice as if Kil had asked if water is wet. "Yes, two brains. Rillian Mountain Cats always have two. That way when one of them sleeps the other takes over."

"So...it has two heads, then...?"

"Nope. Just the one."

In a pause that lasted long enough for three soldiers to be "checked" for signs of life, Kil finally comes to terms with the unique physiology of the Rillian Cat. "Well, I guess I can see the appeal in hunting a creature that never sleeps."

"Oh, that's not why hunters come for the Cat," says Dillon as he pushes the top body of a small pile over with his foot to get a clear shot at a second one. "It's because both of the brains have different personalities, so their pattern of movement and hunting changes every time one of the brains sleep. I remember one Trandoshan hunter say that chasing a Mountain Cat was like gambling and hunting at the same time."

"Wow, and the weirdest thing we have on Wren is the Blood Tree."

For the first time since meeting him, Dillon has been thoroughly surprised by Kil, even to the point of forgetting to shoot the bodies that are around them now. "Blood tree? What the slag is a blood tree?"

"Oh, I never told you? They make Blood Fruit. Shiny red sweet fruits about the size of a fist. Well, a fist smaller than mine, but anyway, they use the fruit to lure birds into their toothed leaves, clamp down on 'em, and eat 'em. Pretty easy to guess how they got their name."

If he hadn't been wearing the helmet, Kil's smile would have revealed the crooked canine he'd earned in a fight when he was a lot younger. When Dillon remarks on how horrible a concept that is, a meat eating plant, Kil hastily corrects him. "You wouldn't be saying that if you'd ever been on Wren. We have at least a hundred times more birds there than any other planet I've been on. All colors, all sizes, and so many that they're a public nuisance. You have any idea what it's like to have to hose off your coat and hat every day to keep from stinking up the house? We all love the Blood trees. And besides, I don't think you have the right to comment, Mr. Two Brained Tiger."

"It's a cat. A big cat."

"Whatever, all I'm saying is that all the weird stuff on your world- worlds, trumps anything we have on Wren."

Suddenly the chatting stops dead as both troopers realize where they are standing. Dillon had thought the density of dead Imperial soldiers had increased, but hadn't dwelled on it before seeing it's cause. Right there on the ground in front of him is the dead Sullustan Jedi by the name of Soun Vhandok. A friendly man that earned the respect of the troopers by walking around without a helmet and not suffering from the thin atmosphere. If Soun had not been assigned to the 1081st for the duration of this operation there wouldn't have been a single Republic survivor of this fight.

The Sith had touched down outside the range of the infant supply point's scanners and approached on the ground. Low tech, but they wouldn't have been detected until it was too late, and a hundred troopers would have been caught with their pants down. But Soun had felt something was wrong, and emergency patrols were sent out.

Even when the attack came, Soun outdid every other man on the field. The jolly robe wearing guy with a smile wider than any human can manage turned into a squat whirlwind of death. He took out three of the four Force wielding Sith on his own while holding the front lines. Every one of the thirty odd bodies on the ground here was Soun's work as he held the Imperial attack force at the perfect range for the 1081st's defensive lines to hit their advancing attackers. Soun had been fighting all alone for what seemed like an eternity to the troopers he had forced to stay behind, stay where they would do the most good. And every one of those trooper's hearts had burst when they saw Soun take that first blaster hit, causing him to lose his carefully maintained momentum, and then half a dozen right afterward. And every man counter charged the advancing Imperials hoping to reach that one Sullustan before he fell. The trooper's surge had surprised the Imperial forces and their lines broke down as they were slammed by melee combat. Not a single Imperial was allowed to escape from that tangle of violence, not even the ones that tried to run.

It's not an exaggeration to say that Soun is the one that won the battle.

And that is why the two troopers stand in reverent silence despite the pressing time limit until departure. Kil reaches up to remove his hat before he remembers he's wearing a bolted down helmet. Dillon kneels down to slowly close the Sullustan's eyes, remarking on the fact that the Jedi still seems to have a smile on his face. Dillon then places Soun's fallen lightsaber into the hands he folds over the blaster burned robes, over the warrior's heart.

When the battle ended there were too many wounded to worry about the dead. And later on, the field was unable to be secured for the gathering and transit of the deceased. That is why Dillon and Kil are out here, to secure the field.

"I know we're not supposed to call in anyone that isn't alive, but..."

"Yeah, Kil... I agree." Dillon didn't need to hear the rest to know. Soun is an exception. They can't pretend to not have seen him.

After calling in the location of Soun's body, the surviving lieutenant gives Dillon and Kil new orders, to stand watch until he gets there. The two of them stand in silence for a good fifteen minutes, idle chatter not being suitable to the occasion. When the two of them see the approach of the lieutenant it is obvious he has not come alone.

Behind the last surviving officer of the 1081st's division is a narrow loading bed, usually used for moving munitions crates through the narrow armory doors, being guided by a half dozen of the walking wounded, men who were injured enough to be removed from active duty but well enough to be on their feet. Behind those troopers is a line of white armor that seems to grow and expand as it comes closer, until it is obvious that all the troopers that survived without being mangled are there, in two rows of eleven troopers, the final trooper in one of the rows limping so badly that he can barely walk straight. The white of the honor guard's armor is spoiled from head to foot with mud stains, carbon scoring, cracked armor plates, and in some places fresh blood.

In preparation, Dillon and Kil begin dragging away the bodies of the Imperial troopers littering the ground to make room for the procession. It would be bad manners to be standing on a man's trophies while you honor him. Having just finished clearing the ground as the honor guard arrives, the two troopers salute.

"Private Kil Sammek, Sir!"

"Private Dillon Gauss, Sir! Jedi Knight Soun Vhandok has remained undisturbed, Sir!"

"Good work troopers," says the lieutenant, his voice croaking from the abundance of orders he'd been giving, "Now line up."

Dillon and Kil are released from their salute, and briskly move to the front of the two rows of troopers. Reaching the position their training has dictated they take, the two troopers stop sharply, turn, and rack their weapons into the proper grip. And then they stand there, attentive and patient as the lieutenant walks the field until he is standing just on the far side of Soun's remains. Once there, the lieutenant hoarsely shouts, "**Honor Guard! Forward!**"

In perfect sync, the two lines of troopers march with one loud stomp per step as they move but for the shuffle as the one crippled trooper drags his body in pace with the rest. At a distance of five meters between the lines with Soun lying in between, the troopers stop and turn a sharp 90 degrees to face their fallen comrade to shoulder arms in a single rumble that fills the air, as if ready to be inspected by a superior officer.

"**Bearers! Forward!**"

The walking wounded slowly lead the hovering bed over some of bodies on the ground before reaching the cleared turf, and coming to a stop just before Soun. The walking wounded step forward to have three on each of Soun's sides and stand there.

"**Lift!**"

The six grown men bend down stiffly. It is obvious that they are all in a lot of pain, even with the emergency Kolto treatments, but they do not utter a sound as they each take up a portion of Soun's weight and lift the small Sullustan. Reverently, the walking wounded all take small side steps as they move Soun slowly over the transport bed before lowering him onto its surface. After laying their comrade down, the walking wounded step back and bring their arms up in a salute which they hold.

Not a soldier moves at this time, as silence hangs around all of them. A civilian or a Jedi would have taken this chance to say some words to honor the remains of their friend, but troopers don't mourn on the battlefield. That doesn't stop each individual trooper from saying in his heart and his head their words of thanks and of goodbye, though. And Dillon knows that his is not the only helmet wet with silent tears.

"**About! Face!**"

In one move, the honor guard and the pallbearers alike turn a sharp right angle, the pallbearers released from their salute to take hold of the transport their charge is resting upon. The trooper with the mangled leg nearly falls over from the sharp shift of weight, but no one judges him for it. Soun wouldn't have minded.

"**March!**"

The procession is slow, and eats a good twenty minutes of the preciously short time the troopers have before departure. It proceeds past the empty barracks since no one can afford time for sleep. Past the bustling medical center, almost overflowing with patients who either stare at the passing train of people in melancholy in being unable to honor their friend, or turning their faces away so as to hide their tears. The procession passes by the recently installed proton bombs in the center of the camp, meant to be detonated from orbit to destroy any supplies the Sith could get their hands on, and the large supply hangers that have only had a tenth of their contents moved to the cargo haulers despite the hours of effort involved. And finally the procession reaches the personnel transport that had been moved into position for this event, and its long loading ramp slowly lowers, the hanger door itself acting as the ramp. And there at the opening entrance stands the ship's flight crew.

The procession stops as it reaches the foot of the ramp, the troopers turning in to face their charge and once more shoulder arms. The troopers stand motionless as the pristinely dressed transport's captain comes down the ramp wearing a transparent breathing mask to salute the 1081st's stained and battered lieutenant. In close with one another, the two officers have what is meant to be a private chat, but Dillon's able to just barely make out the words, being at the head of the procession.

"This is a trooper's ceremony, Lieutenant. Are you certain it's alright to treat a Jedi like this?"

"I am," says the lieutenant strongly, even with his overtaxed voice. "Until we turn Jedi Knight Vhandok over to the Order, he's one of our own."

After a few moments the transport's captain nods and says, "Very well then. When can I expect the rest of the casualties?"

"Soon. We won't be leaving them behind."

Satisfied, the transport captain steps forward to accept charge of the fallen Jedi, and walk the pallbearers up the ramp into the ship. Before the pallbearers could take a step, the lieutenant shouts, "Salute!"

As one, the honor guard shift their rifles to the left hand, held by the barrels, and strike the stocks against the ground to rest while their right hands shoot up to their foreheads. All the troopers, the lieutenant included, hold their salute as the honored dead is carried aboard the ship and transferred into the temporary custody of its crew. And as Soun's body passes by him, Dillon's breath catches. It was most likely nothing, just the play of rigor mortis, but Dillon got a look at Soun's face between the pallbearers.

It looked like Soun's smile had just widened a little.


	2. On Thick Ice

**Chapter 2 - On Thick Ice**

The atmosphere of the ice world of Hoth tears at the hull of the Amberlinde, a small Corvette gun ship, as she plummets through the stratosphere, crippled from the intense battle above the planet. With the metal hull beginning to glow red from the friction, the warning lights and alarms in the ship's bridge blare their emphatic warnings about cascading system failures and destroyed sections of the ship, increasing in noise and intensity as the uncontrolled descent continues. The white haired Lt. Commander Duerno stands in the center of this world of chaos, his habitual glower etched on his face. The continual disappointment of being passed over for promotion has turned this man into a hard officer, determined to treat every situation with the staunchest discipline called for. That is why he can stand so rigidly still even as the entire bridge crew is shouting out their increasingly dire news over the sounds of the ship falling apart.

"Engineering reports that the main engine is still offline, and they repeat that repairs appear to be impossible!"

"Power flow has dropped to forty percent, we cannot maintain shields!"

"The comm relays have burnt out! We have lost contact with the fleet!"

"Structural integrity in the starboard bulkheads is down to sixty-eight percent and falling!"

The view screens are full of nothing but fire burning away the hull of the Amberlinde, and the main viewport due forward has clouds sweeping past at a horrifying speed. It's useless to hope for any fast turn about of fortunes in this situation. Lt. Commander Duerno can only take solace in the fact that the Amberlinde which he was given command of so many years ago will not see service under any other officer. Both of their careers end today. But these things must be done right, and certain measures need to be carried out even if they are meaningless in the end.

"Notify all hands to prepare for a crash landing!" Duerno shouts his order and hears it repeated through the Amberlinde's intercom, but he doesn't make a move himself. He has to keep up appearances to give those on the bridge some comfort in their final moments.

"The last maneuvering jets have gone offline, Sir! We are now in a full free fall!"

The main viewport seems to suddenly tip to the side and back to show the receding sky and the dim flashes beyond it as the Republic and Imperial fleets continue to tear into one another, the Amberlinde most certainly forgotten.

"Life support is beginning to fail! Power to the inertial dampeners is falling and we are losing gravity control!"

Duerno can feel the grip of his boots on the plating lessen as the changing pull of the artificial gravity and the accumulated speed of an uncontrolled dive struggle for dominance.

"Impact in twenty seconds! Ten! Five!"

Just before the final impact, Lt. Commander Duerno speaks the only tender words he's uttered aboard his vessel in a decade. "Goodbye, my Amberlinde."

And the world explodes in a cacophony of twisting metal, detonating circuits, breaching hulls, and the plunging death of the Amberlinde is cut short for Lt. Commander Duerno as he is hurled into the far wall of the bridge.

# # # # #

After the crescendo of the Amberlinde's landing ends, the air is left strangely silent like the inside of a mausoleum, the only light source being the dazzling glare of snow reflected sun shining through the main viewport. There is no sound of the ship settling, of shorting wires, or movement of any kind. Just the gentle whistle of the arctic wind whipping through the occasional tear in the hull, reverberating like the inside of a drum, and the moaning of those who just barely survived as the last of the Amberlinde's power was redirected to the overtaxed inertial dampeners.

One of the moans belongs to a suited up trooper by the name of Corporal Dillon Gauss, lashed into an emergency harness and chair set into the wall. Still aching from the effect of having all his internal organs tossed around like juggling pins, Dillon slowly does a visual check of his limbs to make sure they're all still there before releasing the restraints and falling flat on his face. He had underestimated how disoriented he was.

Struggling to get his legs back under him, Dillon surveys the bridge. The entire place is a wreck with no visible systems operational, and tangles of wires and wreckage hanging everywhere. There is no way anyone is going to find out the status of the ship from here, in fact the trooper's in-helmet radios may be the only way to gather information quickly. Dillon opens a frequency to the other troopers on board the Amberlinde, a token force of eight soldiers that is suppose to act as security for a ship with a maximum capacity of thirty people. Dillon gives his orders over the radio in a shakily awkward voice, partially because he has not yet recovered from the crash and partially because he is still not used to giving orders.

"This is Corporal Gauss to all troopers, sound off and search the Amberlinde for any survivors. Get the wounded to the Med-Bay if it hasn't been destroyed already, and report on the ship's condition if possible."

"Private Zere, reporting. I'm already at the Med-Bay. The Med-Droid is trashed, but the attendant is alright. The bad news is we've only got emergency lighting, and can't use any of the equipment."

About three months ago, when the 1081st fought on the then nameless planet, now the planet Soun in the Vhandok system after central accepted the 1081st's Delta Company's request for them to be named after a fallen Jedi, Dillon and Kil had found a man in the field who'd had his arm cut off by a Sith. Tomas Zere is that man. About a month after the battle he was cleared for active duty again and rejoined the battalion, just in time to be assigned to the Amberlinde. A dark skinned man with close cut thick dark hair, he would have been considered somewhat handsome before his face was shattered. The doctors were able to put it back together, but he no longer has symmetric features.

While a solid trooper who will undertake any assignment, he's prone to complaining about the little problems, even as he's working through them.

"Private Burnett, reporting. I am almost at engineering and…oh. It's bad, Sir. I don't know if I will find any survivors."

Private Lyra Burnett is one of the new recruits that had been issued to the 1081st since the battle on Soun, and in Dillon's opinion, someone that should never have become a trooper in the first place. Not because of any faults on her part, but the exact opposite. The young lady with jaw length scarlet hair obviously comes from an at least moderately well off Coruscant family if you take her accent and obvious education into account. But that type of person typically joins the Republic Navy, it generally being the less physically intense type of military service, and more acceptable among the high class.

Dillon feels very awkward giving any order to Lyra, because she seems to have come from a family with a military background and will most likely get promoted above him quickly. But then again, Dillon isn't comfortable giving orders, period.

"Private Sammek, reporting. I'm standing right behind you."

Kil's response is a little sarcastic, as he doesn't miss a chance to make Dillon regret the promotion. In fact, Dillon already regretted being promoted before Kil started teasing him. As far as Dillon can see he was simply chosen at random to fill the shoes of a man who died on the field, as several others in the 1081st were after the battle on Soun. But so many officers were killed that the rest of Delta Company was put on duty guarding ships like the Amberlinde until replacements could be gathered. That's the only reason Dillon and the others were aboard a "Career Ender" like the Amberlinde in the first place.

And that is the last report.

"Dillon? You okay?" Kil asks his question because he's worried that he actually offended his friend this time. Dillon had been standing silently for a little while.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just that we have four troopers unaccounted for." It's the first time someone under Dillon's command has potentially died, and the thought is new and frightening for him. But he doesn't have any time to dwell on it. "Anyway, we need to check everyone and see if the Lt. Commander survived. We need someone to take charge."

"Hey, Dillon? We're gonna need someone other than the Lt. Commander to do that. He landed near me during the crash, so I already checked. He's dead."

Dillon looks at Kil for a moment while he processed this new information. "Well, guess we're only looking for survivors now. Someone had to have made it. Thank the Force for the chain of command. Mind grabbing a first aid kit?"

After Kil heads off to acquire a kit, Dillon starts calling out loud for anyone that can hear him. Soon after Dillon has confirmed that Prentice, the Systems Engineer, died from being electrocuted by previously live wires that fell from the ceiling, Dillon hears a faint and oddly polite voice.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me? I… I think I'm bleeding…"

The two troopers give each other a quick glance and follow the voice to its owner, Lieutenant Lein Rand. She's a young woman with a slightly yellow tone to her complexion, almond eyes, and long jet black hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of the neck. She's a recent naval academy graduate and the Amberlinde is her first posting, which she joined a little over a month ago after the last lieutenant had his transfer request granted. This ever polite girl who has not grown accustomed to the concept of being in command is the highest ranking officer to survive the crash, and is now the one in charge.

And she is bleeding profusely from the arms and face.

Lein's normally pretty features have a few long and deep cuts vertically along the right side with some small bits of shrapnel embedded in the flesh. Her forearms are in worse shape with long jagged bits of metal sticking into them. As Dillon bends down to investigate the wounds more clearly, Lein tells him what happened in a disjointed fashion caused by the pain, ongoing blood loss, and most likely an intense fear of death. It seems that when the Amberlinde struck, Lein bent her head down to cover it with her arms, and her console exploded in front of her. That would explain the wound patterns, but this shrapnel needs to be taken care of right now.

After pulling out the supplies he'll be needing for treatment, Dillon tells Kil, "Would you mind looking for any more survivors? I'll handle this."

Dillon has a little more experience dealing with fresh wounds than your average trooper that uses the 'Magic Kolto Cure,' having helped deal with injured livestock on his home worlds, but Kil is the son of a mechanic. Kil doesn't have any experience in pulling metal from living flesh. It wouldn't do to depend on him to help with this task, especially when others may need help nearby.

As Kil turns to go, Lein starts begging him and Dillon not to leave. She's becoming delirious. Dillon eventually has to go so far as to remove his helmet to make eye contact with the injured woman to calm her down, saying "It's alright. I'm going to fix you up. You're going to be fine." The tone of voice and eye contact being just as important in calming people as it is with livestock.

Dillon pulls out an injector filled with painkillers, giving Lein a dose even as he explains every step in that calming tone to try and keep the girl engaged. Then Dillon removes his belt, strips the pouches from it, and has Lein hold it between her teeth just before giving her a speech similar to the one Dillon's father had given him when he'd stepped on a nail. "Listen to me, Lieutenant. Even with the pain killers, this is going to hurt. I have to pull these chunks of metal out here, now, or you may not make it. So I need you to hold your arms steady and not try to pull away, alright? You can bite down on the belt as hard as you want without hurting yourself, but don't pull away."

Lein looks like she's about to cry at the prospect of renewed pain, but nods her head in understanding before visibly bracing herself. In the silence afterward, as Dillon starts getting a grip on the first metal shard, he hears Kil exclaim, "Oh, Claurice, good to see you looking healthy for a change," followed by the bitter and crabby woman's response of, "Bite me."

The extraction of metal slivers from both of Lein's arms seems excessively long, and is obviously taxing. By the end, Lein is pale and breathing hard from the strangled moans of pain. No screams though, as Dillon notices with satisfaction as he applies the gauze to keep the wounds clean and the kolto patches in place. About the time Dillon is putting kolto gel into the deep lacerations in Lein's face, both to try and prevent scarring and to keep what blood the lieutenant has left inside her, Dillon hears a number of footsteps approaching from behind.

Turning quickly to look, Dillon sees Kil leading the two other survivors of the bridge crew. The young blond man with immaculately trimmed hair is Ensign Dahn Sevik, a long time member of the crew and in charge of controlling the ship's guns. A fairly timid young man who's apparently been trying to get transferred for awhile, but the Lt. Commander kept denying him permission. Dahn seems to be the surviving officer in the best shape going by the aged woman he is helping to stand until she severely shoos him away.

The grey haired and thin faced matron is Communications Officer Claurice Tennet. She's the only member of the crew that actually tried to remain on board the Amberlinde. She and Lt. Commander Duerno were on abysmal terms and were uncivil at every chance they got. But neither one of them felt like relinquishing the fight either. Rumors have it they've been going head to head since Duerno was given command of the Amberlinde some twenty years before. It's easy to believe as Claurice is the most shrewish and venomous creature Dillon has ever met, and Dillon nearly got bit by a Purple Adder once.

Kil quickly describes the process of digging Claurice out from under a collapsed section of wall, which explains the large bruise forming along the side of her face and mess of hairs straying from the bun she ties in the back. Other than that she seems healthy, if a little wobbly on her feet. Yet another addition to the Legend of the Invincible Biddy.

"So I hear that Duerno is dead," says Claurice bluntly, purposely ignoring the man's rank. "I always knew I'd outlive the fool, but I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. What shall we do next?"

Lein seems the most taken aback by the news, more shocked by the thought that she is now in command than having lost a superior officer. Before Lein could voice the thought of asking everyone else what she should do that was obviously bubbling up inside her head, Kil speaks through his helmet.

"Privates Zere and Burnett have reported that they've finished checking the rest of the ship. Want them to come forward to report?"

Kil offers the suggestion to Dillon, but he deflects it to Lein in order to let the lieutenant be the one giving orders, adding, "I think it is a good idea, since it doesn't look like we'll be able to get much information through the ship's systems."

Nodding to herself slowly, Lein confirms the order. As Kil steps away to send the summons through his helmet, Claurice starts walking towards a nearby seat. Dahn moves to help steady her, but Claurice slaps his hands away saying, "I'll ask for help when I need it."

The other two troopers arrive swiftly, remove their helmets, and give their reports while Dillon applies the last adhesive bandages to the lieutenant's face.

The starboard quarters are annihilated, no survivors. Engineering was flattened upon impact, the rear of the ship being the first to strike the surface, no survivors. The sole member of the repair crew that is capable of standing on his own reports that the engine and power plant are beyond repair, and that he didn't even know where to begin. Only one more trooper was found alive and he is comatose in Medical with a depressed cranial fracture, currently inoperable like all the other heavily injured casualties because of the damaged equipment.

Of the original twenty seven people serving aboard the ship, twelve are dead, four are wounded and confined to the Med-Bay.

Lieutenant Lein Rand took it rather well for her first casualty count, she only went silent and even paler than before from the blood loss. After a long minute of silence used to regain her composure, Lein says, "Well, let's contact the fleet and arrange for them to send aid."

"That won't be happening, girlie," says Claurice in her normal tone of cold harshness. "I saw the circuits for the communications systems destroyed through my station. The comm. array is most certainly destroyed as well. And even if we had the parts to replace those systems, which we don't, or the people with the knowledge to do so, which we don't, we also lack the power supply to activate it, even if the array were in one piece."

Claurice ends her tiny lecture by raising her eyebrows pointedly, as if saying, "So there." Dillon steps away, symbolically removing himself from the discussion as he continues reattaching all the pouches to his leatheris belt and takes a look outside the window at the wasteland of ice and snow. Lein finally speaks again, intent on preserving hope. "Then we just need to sit tight and wait for a rescue party from the fleet. They should have tracked our descent."

But Claurice is intent on crushing all hope with reality. "Not only did our signal dissolve _while_ we were burning up in the planet's atmosphere, but we were doing so after suffering catastrophic damage. I believe it is safe to say that the fleet believes we are all dead, and will not bother to send any ship to look for us. Besides, with the fighting as it was when we were shot down, we can safely conclude that the fleet doesn't have a spare ship to waste time searching for a grey block of metal on a planet covered in white!"

This time Claurice nods sharply, looks away, and crosses her arms, most likely fully confident that there will be no more fantastic nonsense out of these children. She would have been right, too. Everyone is now left only with the despair of being marooned and the eventual end such a fate would bring. Some of those present begin to mill around even as Lein begins mumbling something about taking stock of supplies for rationing.

"It's all his fault," chokes Dahn in a voice overcome with repressed emotion. "That narrow minded, abusive, power mad, _megalomaniacal, __**son of a bitch!**_"

Trembling with fury, Dahn makes a quick sprinting kick at the remains of Lt. Commander Duerno, connecting with a dull thud that resounds through the bridge. A kick that is followed up by even more in a flurry of hatred and fury that actually startles Claurice. At Dillon's signal, Tomas and Lyra move to restrain the young man, who spits at the Lt. Commander's remains even as he's pulled away, tears streaming down his face.

The lieutenant is actually trembling from the shock of seeing Dahn Sevik, a man that had only even been quiet, polite, and unimposing to a nearly painful extent come apart to such a degree. The sight leaves her horrified of what may happen with all the rest of the crew once their fate becomes fully known.

"Why are you stopping me?" shouts Dahn accusingly. "It's all his fault! You all saw, when engineering told him the ship was lost, that they couldn't repair the engine, he just told them to try harder! We wouldn't even be here if he had let us abandon ship when we could, and you all know why! He didn't want to give up his power over us even if it meant killing us all! Let me go so I can give him what he deserves!"

Dahn starts sharing Duerno's abuses of power over him. How Dahn had been berated and insulted over poor marksmanship when he was never allowed to perform any live fire exercises, being wasteful and potentially wearing to the ship's systems. How every tiny flaw was picked apart in private after his shift was over and told he'd never serve anywhere else until he'd shape up, but every fault he'd found ran contrary to what he said only the day before.

It all tallied with what Dillon had heard of the man, it being said that the best way to get off the Amberlinde was to quit the navy. But Dahn is going too far, and the lieutenant is obviously not in a form to stop this behavior.

Striding over to the almost broken young man held securely by two troopers, Dillon grabs him by the collar and growls right in his face, "Pull yourself together!"

"Why? What does it matter? We're all dead anyway!"

"It does matter," says Dillon emphatically, and with real conviction. "While I understand what you've been through, your speech being _very_ detailed, your current actions are a disgrace to your position as an officer. Do you want those men in the Med-Bay to hear you and give up hope, too? Besides, Duerno's already dead. You can't do anything more to him."

Upon being reminded that his actions affect others and not just himself, the mousy young man regains his composure, though as the troopers release him he still silently weeps into his hands.

"And you were wrong about something. We're not dead yet," says Dillon as if he knows something the others don't, which catches the attention of everyone in the bridge. "Lieutenant, could you come to the window with me?"

Helping Lein up, Dillon starts leading her towards the front view port. Behind him Dillon hears Claurice's accusatory tone. "Did you not hear me when I said we don't have any way of getting off the planet?"

"You're right, _we_ don't. Lieutenant, please use this," Dillon hands Lein a small electronic telescope Dillon had been using himself only a few minutes before, "and look right in that direction. Right where the blinking lights are."

Looking through the telescope, Lein sees the outline of a large ship. A capitol ship whose running lights are still operable despite the large holes in the hull and engine section snapped off, strewn about the ground in the trench made by the angle of descent. But it seems to be mostly intact. Finally Lein lowers the telescope and breaths the words, "It's the Ana-kin," and then repeats them louder.

"Odd name for a ship," says Kil almost to himself.

"It means 'Great Warrior' in Rhodian," corrects Lyra, offhandedly. Kil responds with a non-committal grunt.

Lein doesn't hear the troopers' low exchange as she excitedly continues. "The Ana-kin went down near the opening of the fleet action, but the fact that the running lights are still working means she has power! And that means we'll be able to use her communications equipment! There may even be a working shuttle in her hanger!"

Unlike the rest of the crew, Claurice is determined to not be swept up by the rush of relief at this possible salvation, but instead peers out the viewport and brings everyone right back to reality by saying, "It would seem the Ana-kin will be in better shape than us, but we don't have any guarantees that that is the case. Besides, it's a dozen kilometers away at the least. How are we supposed to get there across a field of ice? Walk?"

Faced by the moral superiority of the communications officer, Lein makes a face like she had just inwardly said, "Oh, I hadn't thought of it," when Dillon cuts in. "While we have no guarantees, the lieutenant believes that our situation will change for the better should we find a way to reach the Ana-kin, which means that is our new goal. Our job as her subordinates is now to try and find a way to achieve her goal. Let's start hearing ideas on how to get from here to there."

Taking a cue from Dillon, Lein seems to straighten herself up to play the role of a person in command now that she has some hope of pulling through the current situation. "Yes, it is obvious that we cannot stay here, not without life support or proper gear to protect against the cold. We are currently in a race against time with the environment, so please share any ideas you may have."

Lein didn't have to spell the situation out. Everyone has noticed that the air is noticeably cooler than it was just twenty minutes ago. If nothing is done then the internal temperature of the Amberlinde will be the same as the external by nightfall. The ideas begin flowing out, each thought curtailing the next.

Lyra starts the discussion. "Well, we can't stay here, or leave anyone behind since we don't have the materials to make a fire for warmth. The only things we have that will burn are food and clothing."

Tomas kicks in next. "Then we have to make sure we all make the trip together, no one left behind. The most obvious idea would be for us to carry the wounded on medical beds and stretchers and walk, but I doubt we'd get very far."

"With that snow, walking would get us nowhere. It's certainly uncompressed powder or loosely held together ice," says Dahn, sharing the expertise he has coming from a hometown that saw deep snow every winter. "Without special footwear your leg will plunge deep and you'll be in trouble. You won't be trapped in the snow, but if any melts and penetrates your clothing it will refreeze over and over again, draining your body temperature. The instant one of us gets wet, we're on our way to frostbite."

"Then we just have to cross over the snow, instead of going through it," says Tomas, as he starts thinking laterally.

Lyra seems to be left behind, looking at the supplies from a realistic view. "With what? We don't have any speeders or any other hover vehicles on the ship."

"Actually we do," says Kil, joining the discussion. "Tomas, you wouldn't remember since you were half dead, but on Soun we ran out of medical beds for transporting the dead and wounded. So we used the industrial lifts instead. If I recall, we should have a pair of those tucked away in the hold."

Dahn had been forced to reorganize the hold on Lt. Commander Duerno's orders often, and as the one most familiar with the industrial lifts he is quickly able to consider them. "Yes. If we cram all of our people close we could probably fit them all on the lifts. Huddling together would also let us conserve body temperature, especially if we bring all our blankets along… But it's no good, the lifts don't have any internal propulsion. If we want them to move we'd need someone to push them."

Lyra offers a suggestion next. "What if we made some of those special shoes Ensign Sevik mentioned earlier? Our trooper armor is durable, so if we were to wear a few pairs of make shift shoes we could push the lifts until we reach the Ana-kin."

"That's a no go, right there," says Tomas flatly. "I've heard of these 'snow-shoes', they spread out the body weight of one person as they walk. It's different if they are pushing at a slanted angle. And besides, our armor is made for combat, not the more extreme environments. We may be more protected than the navy's cloth uniforms, but we don't have the insulation to go walking for kilometers through the snow. Especially this arm of mine," says Tomas as he flexes a few fingers of his cyber-prosthetic hand in view of everyone. "I don't have any insulation on this baby, which is directly connected to my flesh, meaning I'll have to bundle it up for the trip. I won't be able to use my trigger finger out there."

"Do you really need to be that worried about being able to shoot stuff? This is a desert of ice," says Kil, half in disbelief.

"You'd better believe I'm worried," responds Tomas right back, "We don't know what kind of beasts are out there just waiting for a hot meal to come along. You can never be too careful."

"Okay," says Dillon, heading off the tangent. "We'll all take our weapons with us. Now, how do we solve the problem of propelling the industrial lifts?"

The topic quickly turns to fitting out the industrial lifts with scavenged repulsor lifts from the ship, or maybe small turbines of some sort. Finally Lyra shakes her head and says, "No, it's impossible to make anything that advanced. We lost all the engineers, we would never be able to accomplish such a high tech answer before nightfall."

"Then what about low tech?" asks Tomas with an odd gleam in his eye.

"You got an idea, Tomas?"

"I actually do, Dillon," says Tomas without restraint, the only trooper on the ship that actually thinks of Dillon as a superior officer being Lyra. "I think I told you guys, but my home world is about four fifths water. That means we have a large number of coastline cities. Well, people still live on the water and use boats to get around any canal roads the cities may have. When the water is shallow enough they can just stand on a boat and stick a pole into the water to push their way forward instead of using an engine. What if we do that for the lifts?"

"A pole alone won't give us enough grip against snow," expands Dahn thoughtfully, "But if we increase the surface area, we could get enough grip. Like an oar only wider."

Turning to Lein, Dillon says, "I think we've got a reliable plan Lieutenant Rand. Shall we begin preparations?"

The lieutenant agrees, but before she can begin giving orders on who will be doing what, the Invulnerable Biddy cuts in while walking for the exit. "Well have fun enacting your goofy plans, children. I'm going to Medical to see if I have any internal bleeding."

"What bleeding?" asks Dillon to the air, confused. He quickly gets a full description of what it is from Lyra, after which Dillon mildly suggests that everyone follows Claurice's lead and get a check up, only mildly horrified for his own safety.

# # # # #

It had taken a lot of preparation to get what the crew had taken to calling "Project: Bobsled" into action. The longest task was the fabrication of four snow oars, and getting the wire mesh, shape, and reinforced backing of them just right. The funnest task was using Dillon's souvenir lightsaber from the planet Soun to cut a hole in the hull near the snow's level large enough for everyone to exit through. The troopers took turns at this job, Lyra finally intrigued enough to ask for a turn. It'll be some time before the guys let her forget that she giggles like a fourteen year old.

After getting the industrial lifts outside and solidly connected to prevent a separation of the crew, everyone was loaded onboard and covered by every blanket and piece of insulating fabric that could be found. The Ithorian on the crew found the shift to the cold dry environment worse than most, but with the extra preparations there seems to be no severe exposure to the elements. Even the four troopers have been set up with make shift ponchos to try and keep the wind off as much as possible.

The meshed snow oars ended up holding the strain of trained troopers leveraging them into the untouched snow, though building the initial momentum was troublesome. About a few hours after departing the Amberlinde, pushing the industrial lifts at about the speed of a brisk jog, the four troopers are using this time in the white washed wilderness to share stories over their head sets.

"And so my dad hit the brakes, and I was launched out of the Hauler like a rocket doing a full flip in the air, landing on my back about eight meters away."

"Dang, Dillon, did you break any bones?" asks Kil in the middle of another stroke with the snow oar.

"I'll get to that. So, my dad jumps out of the Hauler and runs up to me, thinking he'd just killed his son. When he gets there I just sit up and say, 'That was great!' My old man looked at me like I'd broken my head, but I didn't have a scratch on me."

"No way, man," says Tomas from his spot opposite Dillon on the front half of the combined lifts, a thick wrapping of cloth over the artificial hand that is tightly gripping the snow oar. "You're lying your ass off."

"True story, I swear!" Dillon even goes so far as to put his hand over his heart in sincerity. "Homeworlds have a standard 1.1 G's and all, and I was perfectly fine."

As the troopers enjoy the after part of the story, still fully disbelieving the event, the conversation begins winding down again, even as the hull of the Ana-kin looms larger and larger as they close the distance to it. The Ana-kin is now about a kilometer away, but the torn up ice and snow along its hull is visible and obviously piled high. Using this lull in the trooper's conversation as a chance, Dillon switches his helmet's equipment for external communication.

"Lieutenant, how would you like us to approach the Ana-kin? I can't see an access point from here."

Shivering from the cold despite the insulating blankets, Lein slowly pulls out the telescope Dillon had been loaning her and inspects the Ana-kin's visible bow and port sides at length before answering, her voice trembling. "It w-would seem the ice has built up from t-the Ana-kin's descent. W-we won't be able to a-access the ship from t-this side. The other side s-should have the gully where the ground was t-torn up, and the hull should b-be accessible. That is our s-safest approach."

Dillon studies the young lieutenant, about the same age as himself. She has small bits of ice clinging to her face that had formed through the freezing of her own exhaled breath, and her features are unhealthily pink and raw. The same can be said for the rest of the crew, who have all been suffering the cold with mute fortitude, fortitude that has almost been broken. If not for the Ana-kin's constantly growing larger in their field of view many would have already been broken by the experience.

And on the other hand, here is Dillon and the troopers who are being kept synthetically warm by the constant exertion of propelling the lift. But the instant they stop exercising the troopers will be just as bad off as everyone else. Even while contemplating this, Dillon's training allows him to give a proper acknowledgement to the lieutenant's course correction.

"Say, Dillon," asks Kil over the radio now that they have their orders for approaching the Ana-kin. "I don't think I asked, but how did you know this thing was out here?"

"Oh, that? Well, once I realized there was nothing on the ship we could use to get off world, I decided to check and see if there was anything outside the ship we could use. And you know the rest."

"What, that's it?" exclaims Tomas, who was actually expecting something a little more cunning. Kil actually busts out laughing, following up with the comment, "And people say I don't think things through."

Slightly unsettled, Dillon explains that lots of ships had been destroyed and their parts fallen to the planet below, so he just thought they could find some salvage is all. Kil turns it around by saying, "And in the end you find a nearly intact capitol ship. Dang, Dillon, I always knew you were lucky, but that takes the cake."

"If I was really lucky, I never would have been promoted. I hate the idea of being in charge of stuff."

Amid the jeers of how unlucky a man must be to get career advancement, Lyra breaks into the conversation now that it has become about rank. "I've been meaning to ask about this for some time actually. You are our superior, but you are so… casual with everyone at all times. You seem to be taking your position seriously, but you don't act like it at all. Why?"

"Well," grunts Dillon as he pushes with his oar, adjusting the angle of closing with the Ana-kin, "I don't think of any of you guys as my 'underlings' or even as grunts. So when I'm talking with my friends I call them by their names, their first names, and they call me Dillon back. I mean how awkward would it be for someone to call me 'Corporal' in the middle of a conversation."

Kil and Tomas back Dillon up on that, adding the fact that he isn't someone who deserves that kind of respect. Then Lyra asks, "Then why have none of you used my first name? Everyone still calls me Burnett."

A sudden awkwardness settles on the conversation and a few random sounds make their way over the radio link, which are then blasted away by Dillon's blunt, "That's because none of us consider you a friend."

"Dude!"

"Hold off, Kil, let me finish." With hardly a beat, Dillon launches into his explanation. "Lyra, you know why we latched onto your giggling before so hard? It's because that is the most you've shared with us about yourself, the fact that you're able to laugh. You complete your duties, you share small talk, and you keep your privacy. There's nothing wrong with that, and we all consider you a valuable part of the 1081st, but that's just co-worker stuff. It's fine if you want that, but that leaves you even more faceless with us than the helmet you're wearing now."

"Up until four months ago, we had a guy just like that in the old squad. Private sort of guy, but not in a creepy way. Kept to himself and only had light conversations, and never anything private. Then he gets taken out by a sniper. All of us were there pushed up against the edge of our trenches, and only one person said anything about it. Remember what you said Kil?"

"Oh, come on, I was trying to be funny!"

"Come on, Kil, say it."

With an audible sigh, Kil finally gives in and tries to pass the words off in the same lighthearted manner as he did that day months before. "Well, better him than me."

Snickering a little, Tomas chimes in. "And that was the most sensitive thing any of us said about his death."

"Exactly," says Dillon as he gets back on track. "As a fellow trooper, we're willing to put our lives on the line for your sake, leave no man behind and all that. But if you want companionship, well you've gotta open up first. All we know about you is that you're from Coruscant, and that's only because of your accent. If that's all the sharing you're willing to do, then it's no wonder we haven't opened up to you."

After a lingering silence, Lyra finally says, "What would you like to know about me?"

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Tomas cuts off any possible answer to Kil's self serving question with a laughing hoot, followed by the word "jackass." Dillon asks a less presuming question. "What made you decide to enlist?"

"Well, this is going to sound odd… I joined the troopers because I hate my older brother."

"That _is_ rather odd," says Dillon conversationally, "Usually you sign up because you hate Imperials."

"That's why I joined," chimes in Tomas.

"I guess I need to explain my situation a little," says Lyra, half in resignation. "The Burnett's have always been a military family, with at least one Burnett serving in the Republic Navy at all times…" Dillon suppresses the urge to say, 'I knew it' as he continues to listen. "My father is Rear Admiral Burnett, currently assigned to keeping production up at the Tievel Dockyards, but he still has a lot of pull. Because of that, he was able to get my older brother the captaincy of a light frigate used only for patrolling trade routs for smugglers and pirates, about five years sooner than he would have gotten such a post normally. But my brother is full of himself and acts like he got his position through his own abilities, abilities which are sadly lacking."

"My brother's attitude got so bad that I decided to enlist myself, earn a rank, and shove it in my brother's face. I couldn't do that in the navy without my father interfering on my behalf, and doing it without 'daddy's influence' is vital to my being able to throw my rank back in my brother's face the next time he talks about how great it is to be an officer."

Confused, Kil asks, "Wait, wait, wait… You went to war… to one up your brother?"

"Oh, no," exclaims Lyra, "I would have enlisted anyway. My brother is just the reason I joined the army instead of the navy."

"But if your family is connected, why start as a Private?" asks Tomas. "You could have started as an officer by going through the academy first."

"Well, getting my rank all on my own was the idea," explains Lyra, the embarrassment carrying even over the radio. "I realized how flawed the plan was sometime during boot camp…"

Dillion interrupts the conversation as the lifts near the plowed up snow and ice from the landing, a pile long, wide, low, and filled with sharp outcroppings of shattered ice. "Alright everyone, we're going to need to build up speed to get over this. See that clear section dead ahead? That's the target. We're in for a ride as soon as we clear the crest, so hold on tight."

With a faster rhythm punctuated by the repeated count of "one, two," the lift begins picking up speed in a dash towards the lowest and least rubble strewn portion of the wall of snow in front of them. As the speed increases, Dillon shouts to the Amberlinde's crew, "Hold on to something, people! Things are going to get bumpy!"

The lifts hit the first moguls in the Ana-kin's wake and the lifts start shuddering from the effort of compensating for the shifting terrain. Then the angle of elevation on the snow bank changes, slightly at first but quickly becoming much sharper. The lifts are not meant to compensate for such fast changes in elevation, and the jagged ice shard strewn surface quickly advances up towards the unprotected bottom of the lifts, threatening to tear the machine's guts out. The speed of the approach is enough to carry the lifts almost halfway up the rise on its own, but the troopers have to keep stabbing into the surface with their snow oars to keep their momentum up.

The lip of the lift finally strikes the surface of the rise as the front edge plows through the top most layer of powdered snow at the embankment's apex, the bottom grinding against the more compacted snow underneath. With one final push at the very top, the front of the combined lifts shifts and balances precariously for a moment before the weight of Dillon and Tomas at the very front edge causes the lift to cross over, and the downward plunge begins.

Shudders become bumps, and then lurches until every person feels they are on top of a bucking beast that is picking up speed. More than one hand is cut into from gripping the cargo securement bars on the lift, which are cold and covered with ice crystals. Like a bobsled, the lift continues to gain speed as it slides down the deep trough shaped like the decline of a roller coaster. During the descent the lift strikes a chunk of extended ice, causing the hovering platform to begin a turn that becomes a spin as it reaches the flattened gully made by the crashing Ana-kin.

As the lifts begin to lose their momentum and the turning slows, the crew of the Amberlinde begin to relax, excluding the one crewman who retches over the side. Checking themselves quickly, they find that no one was bucked off during the ride, desperation for the conscious and lashings for the unconscious keeping them safe. As the thought "that wasn't so bad" starts to trickle into the heads of many of the crew, Lein takes on her role as the ranking officer by inspecting the Ana-kin from this new angle and gives her findings out loud, her voice steady for the moment from the adrenaline rush.

"There doesn't appear to be any significant piling up of debris and I can see a few holes in the hull we can enter the Ana-kin though. I don't think we're going to have any trouble getting aboard her from this side."

The crew of the Amberlinde begins the slow rise of morale from disoriented, to disbelief, to barely restrained hope. The fact that their wasting most of the day laying around in the cold no longer seems the torturous experience it had grown to be in their minds. But before the happiness could manifest, Kil exclaims, "Oh, crap!"

Nearly every conscious head aboard the lifts turned at those unfortunate words and the Amberlinde's crew all saw the cause of the outburst at about the same time. An Imperial light frigate, all it's specs about three times that of the Amberlinde's, laying in the gully nearly a kilometer away, with members of it's crew visible to the naked eye.

"Lieutenant, what are your thoughts on that craft?" asks Dillon, not wasting any time in trying to inform his fight or flight instinct.

Looking through the telescope, Lein begins listing off her observations. "There doesn't seem to be a major disturbance around the ship, so I doubt it was a crash landing, but they are obviously working on repairs. I can only guess they were damaged enough that they could not escape the planet's gravity well and decided on a controlled landing, using the compacted ground in the Ana-kin's wake. They will probably be space worthy in less than a day's time. I don't see any soldiers patrolling, so the ship seems to be their…" Lein's voice fades away. Then she turns to look at Dillon offering the telescope and says, "They have a Sith with them."

His throat tightening, Dillon takes the palm sized telescope and looks through. The automatic focus brings the ship into view immediately, and with a quick perusal Dillon finds the black caped figure pacing the way a caged carnivore would. He seems bored, a bad sign in a Sith. The distance and zoom indicators dance about the image as Dillon increases the magnification to get a better look at the Sith. The man is almost as pale as the snow, with close cut white hair that seems to have changed color before it's time considering a severe lack of wrinkles on the Sith's face. The Sith is also tall, broad shouldered and muscular to the point of it being obvious under the layers of armor and the cloak hanging about his shoulders and back. But the most striking thing about this Sith hits Dillon right in the gut. He's missing an eye and is using a leatheris belt in place of an eye patch, a leatheris belt bearing the insignia of a Republic Trooper Special Forces unit.

Just as a few choice expletives form in Dillon's mind the Sith turns his gaze as if he were looking Dillon straight in the eye, startling the trooper enough to take a half step back. The Sith squints his good left eye, and then calls out something that cannot be heard to his side. Dillon shifts his view and zoom accordingly to find the man that was spoken to, a naval officer by the looks of it, who brings out a pair of micro binoculars and looks in Dillon's direction, saying something. And a smile quickly begins spreading across the Sith's face.

That's more than enough information for Dillon.

Tearing the telescope from his face, Dillon crams it quickly into its place on his belt and says in the most commanding voice he has ever had to date, "They're coming after us. Troopers, we're paddling for the Ana-kin double time. The instant we reach an opening we pile everyone in and make for the hanger. Double time, Troopers."

Using the unmodified pole ends of the snow oars against the compacted snow and frozen earth, the troopers once more put their best into propelling the lifts and quickly allow the crew to reach the torn up hull of the Ana-kin. Dillon and the other troopers begin handing the Amberlinde's crew down to the solid snow and ice beneath them, except for Claurice who told Tomas emphatically that if he tried to touch her she would cut off his other hand. With all the Amberlinde's crew on the ground and busy passing the wounded through the chosen hole in the Ana-kin's hull, Dillon uses this time to view the Imperial forces and the Sith once more through his telescope.

"They don't seem to be moving," says Dillon, almost in wonder.

"Perhaps they decided we're not worth it," says Lein, the hope only slightly noticeable in her voice. "They would have to organize their troops and cross the snow on foot. Maybe they don't think we're worth the trouble."

"Or maybe they were busy removing a couple of speeder bikes from their hold," says Dillon in response to seeing the two machines being led down a ramp on the Imperial frigate. Along with the speeder bikes comes another Sith, this one apparently the average grunt type used as shock troops by the Imperials, but the exchanged greeting between the anonymous Sith and the belt faced one suggests a deeper connection.

Dillon quickly calls the troopers over to him and begins giving instructions in that previously unheard commanding tone. "Kil, I need you to grab the big gun we brought off the lift. You other two will be escorting the Amberlinde's crew and officers to the hanger. Any door you can't open, cut through it with this." Dillon tosses his trophy lightsaber to Lyra. "If you find an armory or weapons locker then arm the crew, but don't slow down for anything. Kil and I are going to hold those Sith off for as long as we can. If you find a working shuttle in the hanger, contact us on our radios. If you don't get a response, then take the shuttle and get out of here. Tomas, Lyra, Lieutenant Rand, may the Force be with you."

Stunned by the meaning of these orders, Lyra's mind is only able to really process one thing. "You called me Lyra."

"Work now, talk later. Get moving troopers!"

Lyra and Tomas snap salutes and rush to the entry hole in the Ana-kin's hull, while Kil is busy undoing the bindings on the heavy blaster cannon. But Lein lingers for a moment before saying, "This plan is unacceptable. I will not let anyone else die today. Come with us to the hanger, we're all leaving together."

Even with the bandages on her face and the blankets layered around her body, this is the first moment where Dillon is actually able to see Lein as a real naval officer. Her eyes are sharp, her tone clear, and her body upright with a sense of moral superiority. But Dillon can't follow that order, so he responds with the same authority as a leader of men.

"Lieutenant, the wounded will slow you down enough for the Sith to engage us in the narrow corridors. Four troopers can't take out two Sith in a confined space. I can slow them down out here, just long enough for everyone else to have a _chance_ of getting out alive. You were appointed to the Amberlinde to lead her crew. I was appointed to protect her people. Let me do my job, Lieutenant Rand." Dillon pauses for a moment before breathing the word, "Please."

Lein looks at Dillon's face plate hard, some sadness creeping into her expression, probably from the fact that she cannot see his face right now as he asks her to leave him to his death. A sadness from not being able to see what expression Dillon's making right now, and that the final sight she will remember of the man is the helmet of some anonymous trooper. Turning away from Dillon and Kil, Lein takes a few heavy steps, stops, and says, "You're job is only to slow them down. Once you've done that, hurry after us. We won't be able to wait long… May the Force be with you."

As the lieutenant disappears into the hole in the hull, Kil walks up to Dillon, the blaster cannon heavy in his grip, and says, "Looks like those Sith are on their speeders now. Won't be long."

"Yup," says Dillon casually as he attaches the telescope to the top of his rifle. "We'll still have to wait for them to get in range though."

"Yup," comes Kil's reply. "Hey, I noticed your orders didn't include using the Ana-kin's communications equipment. Wasn't that the main point in coming out here?"

"We've got a pair of Sith charging us," says Dillon as he starts the targeting link up with the palm sized telescopic sight he was given as part of his promotion to corporal. "Do you really think any reinforcements we called would make it to us in time? At this point it's either a shuttle or nothing."

"Ah, yeah, stupid question. Forget I asked. Guess we're just relying on your good luck again, hoping for a shuttle."

"Kil, I'm stuck here playing target practice for Sith with you. How good does my luck seem?"

"Well, when you put it that way, pretty bad. …Hey, Dillon. Why did you choose you and me to remain behind?"

Dillon slowly lifts the end of his rifle up now that the link is complete. The image from the electronic telescope is being fed into his helmet and displayed large for his right eye to see. Right now, Dillon sees the distance display dwindling as the two Sith ride their speeders in a hunter's charge towards their quarry.

"Well, Tomas can't use his hand very well in this cold weather, but the inside of the Ana-kin may be warm enough for him to fight normally. He was also an electrician before becoming a trooper, so he may be able to open doors or do simple repairs on a shuttle. And I've never seen Lyra in combat, so I don't know how she'd react to having two Sith barreling down on her."

Distance: 400 meters until maximum firing range.

"That, and you didn't want that Coruscant girl to die, am I right?"

"She's going to be a good officer one day, Kil. I can tell. Better than me at least, and that's worth trying to preserve."

Kil racks a lever on his blaster cannon, causing various circuits to power up with an electronic whine. "You still haven't told me why you chose to stay behind, Dillon."

"Because I'd never give an order I wouldn't be willing to perform myself."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Distance: 300 meters until maximum firing range.

"Yeesh. Now I know why you hate being in command. You're afraid of being a hypocrite."

"Maybe, I dunno. …Hey Kil, I'm sorry for putting you in this situation."

"It's no problem, Dillon. I was prepared for this to happen ever since I enlisted. Though I was expecting my body to be ice cold _after_ I bought the farm, not before."

Dillon laughs despite himself. Distance: 200 meters until maximum firing range.

"You've got a lousy sense of humor, Kil. But I agree, this is a crap world to die on."

"…Hey, Dillon. What do you miss the most about your home world, I mean, worlds?"

"…The smells I think. Every spring we had flowers everywhere. Wild, fruit, and crop flowers. And every autumn the smell of maturing crops filled the air. It's impossible to describe it, but that's what I miss the most."

Distance: 100 meters until maximum firing range.

"Heh, lucky dog. My home world smells like bird crap all year round. It has short days, long nights, noisy all the time with birds screeching, and stuff is always being wrecked by the stupid things. …But I love it. I don't even want to imagine what the Sith would do to Wren and the people I know there. That's the _real_ reason I became a trooper. I just wanted to let you know."

"Thanks, Kil. It means a lot. …Those Sith sure are making good time."

"Then how about we ruin their good time?"

"Heh, now that's a joke I can get behind."

Distance: 0 meters until maximum firing range.

"Fire!"

Dillon feels the recoil of the rifle with each blast, his finger working so fast it may as well be pressing the trigger down flat. The rapid fire of Kil's blaster cannon makes the sound a grinding wheel would if it could be electric in nature, a flat ongoing squeal punctuated by the ripping of ozone. Their blaster bolts are firing fast, but at such extreme range accuracy is impossible. But sheer weight of numbers allows some shots to come close to their mark.

The two Sith on the speeders pull out their lightsabers, and Dillon can see them deflecting the occasional attack, the potentially lethal bolts knocked away like toy darts. As the Sith get closer they start swinging their lightsabers more often, the accuracy of the shots increasing as the distance narrows. But the power gap between blaster and lightsaber isn't closing fast enough for the troopers to gain an advantage over the Sith's deflection defenses.

"Aim for the bikes, Kil! They can't protect their bikes with those lightsabers!"

"Are you an idiot, Dillon! You really think I can aim this thing!"

Kil's blaster cannon is tearing up the ground sending a combination of snow, ice, and steam into the air before, after, and around the speeders. Finally the Sith decide to make evasive maneuvers to counter the increasing accuracy of the shots. With the precision of a flight of ace fighter pilots the two remain in their position side by side as they move, precision that can't be gained by skill alone. Finally there is a small explosion on the side on the anonymous Sith's bike as a bolt strikes home, whose it was being impossible to tell, which causes it to veer sharply right into it's partner leading to both exploding from the impact.

Dillon and Kil stop firing, stunned. "Hey, Dillon, that just happened, right?"

Dillon just nods dumbly.

"Dillon. Hey, Dillon, are those guys down for the count?"

"Let me check." Dillon raises the barrel of his gun again to view the wreckage through his sight. "There's a lot of smoke but… Yes, one of them is moving around. It's Belt Face, and it seems he's looking for something. Oh, he's kneeling now… over the other Sith. The second one isn't moving. Okay, I think we killed the helmeted Sith."

"Why's that, Dillon?"

"Because Belt Face looks _real_ pissed off now and is charging us on foot. Light 'em up!"

The hail of blaster fire begins once again, and as before the Sith is deflecting any that pose a threat to him. The running has definitely slowed the Sith's approach, leaving him far more vulnerable to accurate fire, but the Sith's defenses are formidable. And since the Sith is no longer on a speeding bike he has the stability to begin deflecting the blaster bolts back at his attackers, as Dillon notes by the sound of impacts on the area surrounding him. The dull thuds striking the Ana-kin's hull, the wet popping of snow and ice, and finally the sharp crack of a bolt striking trooper armor accompanied by Kil's grunt and the sound of his body falling to the ground.

Dillon quickly flicks the telescopic site's toggle off on the side of his rifle with a thumb and hurries over to Kil. A quick look at the smoldering poncho tells Dillon that Kil took the deflected bolt right in the chest.

"Please don't tell anyone I got shot by my own blaster."

Kil's shaky but strong voice bleeds through the speaker in his helmet, much to Dillon's relief. "Dang, Kil. I thought you'd died."

"Well, that makes two of us. But on a less pleasant note, I can't feel my arm."

Dillon lets go of the grip of his rifle, using his right arm to toss Kil's poncho out of the way so he can grab the trooper's kolto injector for some first aid. "Don't worry Kil, I'll have you patched up right away."

"Dillon, no, you don't have the time!"

"It'll only take a second, Kil."

"Damn it, Dillon! **Did you forget how far those Sith can jump!**"

Dillon _had_ forgotten. Dillon's head moves first, turning to see the Belt Faced Sith complete one long jump and begin on his next, the final one needed to get Dillon and Kil within reach of his lightsaber. Dillon knows he doesn't have the time to regrip his rifle, bring it up, aim, and fire. There's no point with the Sith already in the air. But Dillon's right hand moves reflexively anyway.

As the Sith finishes his mid-air somersault, the lightsaber in his hand flashes to life, the red of the crystal being a deeper and darker red than any other Sith saber Dillon had seen before, like congealed blood. As the gloating face of the Sith comes into view, the grenade that Dillon had reflexively torn from Kil's cross belt strikes Belt Face square in the chest and explodes.

The force of the blast knocks Dillon backwards and off balance. Getting his feet under him again, Dillon springs up to see that the Belt Faced Sith had been blasted straight down flat into the ground by the explosion, half his body pressed into the condensed snow and ice.

"I can take care of myself, Dillon," says Kil and he props himself up on his left elbow. "Go make sure that Sith is dead."

With a quick nod, Dillon stands and walks over to where Belt Face is laying. Getting closer, Dillon can smell the burnt flesh, hear the steam rising from the twisted armor plating, and see the deep burns covering the Sith's face. But since Dillon doesn't like the idea of getting any closer to check for signs of life, he just blasts the Sith in the head to get the chore over with.

"I think I got him, Kil."

"Good job, tiger," says Kil, on his knees as he injects a dose of kolto with his left hand into the side of his neck.

Dillon is about to walk away from the Sith's remains when something catches his eye. The lightsaber that had belonged to the Sith is sitting in the snow by his foot, a light steam coming from the ice around it but otherwise untouched by the explosion. An odd feeling washes over the relief that had been flooding through Dillon, one he ultimately bows to. A desire to memorialize this moment.

Dillon picks up the lightsaber and inspects it. It is more complicated than the one he'd picked up on Soun, but the basic structure is the same. A tube with a switch. Except this one has a set of spikes on the pommel side of the tube, most likely meant for drawing blood should the Sith need to strike something with the metal of the lightsaber instead of the energy blade. All in all, it is heavier, more solid, and obviously of better quality and shows the amount of effort the Belt Faced Sith put into his weapon. Dillon almost feels a hint of melancholy over taking it as a souvenir, but then remembers what the Trandoshan hunter he'd spoken with at length during his childhood had said about hunting. The more unique the trophy, the greater it's worth.

This isn't a souvenir. It's the trophy of a predator defeated by its prey. Dillon feels like he understands that hunter just a little more now.

Approaching from the side, Kil says, "Another lightsaber? You're not starting a collection, are you, Dillon?"

"I don't know," says Dillon, who is also wondering that point. "But today is worth remembering."

"True. Hey, Dillon, I think that's a troop carrier they have over there."

Snapping his telescopic site up and active, Dillon quickly checks the scene by the Imperial frigate. They do indeed have a troop transport with them. Lightly armored but with weapon emplacements, meant for fast moving assignments. But something is off about the soldiers that are gathered there and the officer in command. "They're hesitating," says Dillon aloud.

"Of course they're hesitating, we just killed both of their Sith! Would _you_ want to pick a fight with someone who kills Sith?"

Dillon looks back at Kil, back at the Imperials, and repeats the action. A fun idea has popped into his head. Dillon raises the trophy lightsaber high, lights it up, pumps it in the air and starts shouting a challenging roar at the Imperials. Kil picks up on the act fast and starts making a crude gesture with his good hand, echoing the shout. After a decent passage of time doing this, both troopers crack up in laughter.

"Well, all things considered, things went really well!"

"Ignoring the whole 'getting shot' part, right?"

"Well, I did say 'all things considered'…"

Then the Imperial officer shoots the pilot in the head, kicks him out of his seat, and visibly orders another soldier to take the pilot's place. Dillon and Kil are mute for a few seconds before they turn and run. Kil grabs and hoists the heavy blaster cannon over a shoulder as they make a beeline for the rupture in the hull.

Waiting on Kil to climb through the hole, Dillon takes the opportunity to call the other troopers over the radio. "This is Dillon to Lyra and Tomas, I need a status report on your team, now."

Tomas seems quite surprised to hear Dillon's voice again. "Dillon? Is that you? Are you guys okay?"

"Kil's a little beaten up, but we're both in one piece. Now where is that status report!"

Tomas kicks back into his soldierly mind frame fast and gives the bare facts. They've arrived at the hanger on deck 14, hacked some doors, cut through others, but never an unlocked door did they come across. The Lieutenant ordered a few men to raid a nearby medical center for triage equipment while waiting for Jeersin, the unwounded member of the repair team, to finish working on the one mostly operable shuttle they found.

As Dillon finishes pulling himself through the hole in the hull, his mind interprets the information this way. Every door is locked down except for a straight path to the injured and weather beaten crew with a squad of blood hungry Imperial troopers on their way. And as Dillon rounds a corner he sees a distinguishing trail of discarded blankets thanks to the fact that the Ana-kin's life support is still partially functional, and that it is several degrees warmer inside than out. It's like a trail of bread crumbs.

"Tomas, I need you to get to an arms locker and get everyone who can walk or crawl a blaster, set up a defensive firing line in the hanger, and seal all entrances that you can. We've got at least twenty Imperial troopers breeching the Ana-kin any second."

"Then we're in trouble, Dillon," comes Tomas' objective opinion, "Because these navy boys are too cold, tired, and scared to care. Even if they're armed, they'll fold like a lawn chair in the face of an Imperial strike team."

"Hey, Dillon," says Kil, grabbing a shoulder with his good hand, "Why don't we head back to the hole we entered through? They'd have to come one at a time, so we could hold that position."

As Dillon cocks his head to wonder how he could overlook something so simple, an explosion causes the floor to shudder and a puff of displaced air smelling of incinerated metal gusts from the way Dillon and Kil came from. Seems the Imperials decided to make the hole a little wider. In answer, Dillon and Kil take off running again, following the trail left by the Amberlinde's crew.

"Hey, Kil," asks Dillon, breathing hard as he speaks, "When do you think you can use that blaster cannon again?"

"I think the bolt burned some of my collar bone away, Dillon. I can't hold it's weight at all."

"Well, what about Tomas or Lyra? Do they know how to use it?"

"It was Tomas' to begin with," exclaims Kil happily. "We get to the blockade with this gun and we might have a fighting chance!"

And that is when the blaster bolts start getting fired from the far end of the long corridor as the first Imperials come around the bend. They are long and go astray, but it shows just how close on Dillon and Kil's heels they are. About a minute behind.

Turning a corner, Dillon and Kil find the stairs, out of the way and not often used, but wide steps and sitting with a flight on either side of the battle damaged corridor.

"Which way do we go, Dillon? Left or right?"

Looking quickly, Dillon makes his decision. "You go right, I'll go left. If we're lucky we can split the Imperials and deal with fewer at a time when we reach the hanger. Let's go!"

Dillon and Kil dash off in different directions, the sound of boots striking stairs echoing into the hallway from the stairwell that Kil is dashing up. Dillon however stopped at the fifth step and has come back down. Dillon pulls off his poncho and tosses it on the floor near the stairway Kil took. With the sound of Kil's boots, it should be enough to make the Imperials decide to head in that direction.

Dillon quickly heads over to a loose wall panel with hanging wiring and circuits inside that was damaged either from the combat in space or during the landing, doesn't really matter, and bends it open just wide enough for him to fit himself inside. Dillon forces himself to calm down in his hiding spot as he waits for the Imperials to pass him by.

It's strange. Dillon was taught everything he knows about fighting in his training to be a trooper. How to shoot. How to kill. How to make your death worthwhile. But right now he only remembers what that Trandoshan hunter that took a liking to him said.

"The best way to trap your prey is to give it bait that will be interesting. Nothing too good, or the prey will not believe it is real. Just interesting. Using bait that implies a story of how it got there is enough, and the prey will fill in the blanks on it's own. It will assume it is correct and walk into your trap. That is when you claim your prize, the moment your prey is satisfied with it's intelligence."

"Does that really work with everything you hunt?" asked the young Dillon, entranced by such a different method of thought from his own.

"Oh, yes, young one. Everything," said the lizard-like Trandoshan, his serrated smile growing. "Especially the sentient prey."

Dillon slides his combat knife into a downward grip in his left hand. The sound of the Imperial trooper's boots echo in the hallway. The long, narrow, and often unused hallway made specifically for the stairwells. The lead Imperials in their black and grey armor are coming closer, forcing Dillon to breath deeper and longer breaths to offset the rapid fire beating of his heart and the fiery impatience that is consuming his thoughts. In this forced quieting of his mind, Kil's words echo. "We get to the blockade with this gun and we might have a fighting chance!"

That means something needs to slow these Imperials down a little. What better way to slow an assault squad than to leave them afraid of ambushes?

Dillon hears the voice of one of the troopers. "There's another blanket, they definitely came this way."

Right after, the second Imperial trooper says, "You hear that? They're going up the stairs!"

Two troopers step into view through the tiny opening and the instant the closer one turns his full attention to the stairway Dillon bursts out from his cover, the panel breaking off the wall, and in two large strides wraps his left arm around the Imperial trooper's body to stab him in the heart. With that anchor point inserted, Dillon levers the impaled trooper backwards and into physical contact with Dillon even as he brings his rifle up to bear, snapping off two shots in quick succession into the back of the second leading Sith. Without even hesitating to see if the Imperial went down after being blasted, Dillon levers his human shield around to face the hallway with the rest of the Imperial trooper squad coming down it. Now that the few seconds of shock have given way to aggression, the red blaster bolts start flying.

Dillon stands directly behind his living, screaming, cover so as to block off his entire body from the blasts, including hiding his head behind the Imperial's head. But with a flick of his thumb, Dillon is seeing through the telescopic sight on his rifle, lining up shots one at a time to offset shooting one handed. The sound of the living cover's screaming dies as the sharp crack of blaster bolts striking his armor resound over and over, the Imperial's body suddenly becoming a heavy weight. Dillon pulls the corpse closer and adjusts for balance as he keeps shooting back, Imperial after Imperial going down in the linked scope's view.

Finally a bolt strikes Dillon in the side of the head, less protected now that the Imperial corpse is hanging limp as a doll. The impact nearly knocks Dillon senseless, and the searing heat leaking through the armor causes Dillon to grit his teeth, certain that his flesh is burning. But the worst part of this hit is that it knocks out the link Dillon has with his telescopic site, and he's reduced to shooting blind. Another shot hits the corpse shield, and Dillon feels the heat of a flesh wound in his left wrist. He can't stay like this much longer.

Shifting the weight of the corpse from the left arm into the clamping elbow of the right, Dillon draws his left hand back and yanks one of the two grenades he has attached to the belt crossing his chest. Ripping it loose, activating it, and tossing it underhand at about where the Imperials were standing a few seconds ago when he still had visual. The slight "tink" of the impact sensitive grenade hitting the floor is drowned out by the following explosion.

Releasing the dead Imperial, Dillon begins striding forward on the gamble that high explosives are enough to put the Imperials off their game for just a moment, if not killing one or two outright. Rifle held properly, Dillon begins shooting anything that's moving, a liberating feeling for one that has always had to have the discipline of checking a target first because of the squad based warfare he'd been a part of until this moment. And another four Imperials are cut down as the remaining soldiers scramble back behind the corners of the corridors for cover.

Somewhere in the back of Dillon's mind, an astounded voice says that he's actually forcing them to fall back. But that voice is drowned out by another screaming at the top of its lunges to quickly move left to get the angle on the right corner. Since Dillon made a right turn to enter this corridor before, that would mean the left corner up ahead is the one the Imperials rounded to get here. A fundamental rule of any engagement would be to keep your lines of retreat clear, and these soldiers appear to be in a retreating frame of mind. That means the one soldier that ducked around the right corner is likely the only one on that side of the hall.

The Imperial soldier steps out to poke his head and gun around the corner, right into Dillon's waiting line of sight. A few quick blasts and the right side is clear. Now for the left.

Still striding forward at a modest pace, trying to keep the sound of his boots quieter than the sound of his rapidly firing rifle, Dillon continues to pour on the fire on the left corner to keep the Imperials from poking their noses out. When you have a few hundred shots in a clip, you can afford to be wasteful. Reaching the corner, Dillon turns his grip on the rifle out 90 degrees and then puts the barrel around the corner at chest height pulling the trigger wildly. Dillon hears the sound of the bolts striking whoever was ambitious enough to press themselves against the side of the wall, preparing to pop around for an attack when given an opportunity.

Not waiting for any soldiers to realize how close he is, Dillon lets go of the grip on his rifle, yanks his other grenade with his right hand, and tosses it around the corner. Dillon pulls back as another explosion rings through this firefight. Instantly stepping out from cover, Dillon guns down another half dozen Imperials staggering from the explosion, the last two running as fast as they can the way they originally came.

It wasn't that hard to shoot the two runners. Imperial rifles are easier to use. Republic rifles are more accurate.

The only Imperial Dillon doesn't shoot is the one wearing cloth. The officer Dillon had seen execute the insubordinate pilot of the troop carrier. Dillon is tempted to just end him right there, but an officer might have some valuable information. And besides, there's the chance he'll be turned over to a hard core interrogation unit. The thought puts a smile on Dillon's helmeted face. And so Dillon starts giving the officer orders.

"Drop all your weapons and stand up. Now, radio whoever is still in your troop carrier to head back to the ship, say you're going to be busy here for a while. Now step on your comm unit. Now take off your pants. _You heard me_."

After securing the officer's hands using the man's own pants, Dillon not having any manacles, Dillon grabs his prisoner by the back of the neck and orders him to get moving. Turning around to keep his grip on the unlucky officer, Dillon sees the whole scope of what happened. There are lines of dead Imperial troopers around the floor, blood stains on the walls caused by the shredding grenades, and black carbon scoring everywhere. The entire area has transformed from the white and lightly damaged walkway it was before into a tattered battlefield. And all this damage was caused by one man. It's completely crazy. The rest of the walk to the hanger, Dillon wonders if he should be happy to be alive or surprised at his own survival. Oddly enough, self recrimination for killing twenty or so people doesn't enter into the picture.

But Dillon is feeling too tired from coming down off his adrenaline high to dwell too much on the moral implications of what just happened. And ethics are a little too convoluted for him anyway. Besides, he has a prisoner to keep an eye on, and the stairs are not getting any easier.

Both Dillon and the captured Imperial officer are winded by the time they reach the entrance to the hanger, Dillon still gripping the prisoner by the back of the neck to maintain control despite the stitch in his side. What greeted Dillon on entering the hanger was a fortified line up of heavy crates with the Amberlinde's crew, armed and assembled, behind them. The call of "Hold your fire," rings out and the determined defenders lower their weapons, more than a little confused at seeing a strolling trooper leading a pantless Imperial. Feeling the need to say something in reply, Dillon loudly says, "Hey, guys! Look what I found!"

Kil, who has his right arm in a sling and a pistol in his left hand, hops over the barricade and jogs up to Dillon. "Where did you disappear to, man? And what's with the half naked guy?"

"Well, I picked a fight, grabbed him as a prize, and didn't have any manacles on me at the time."

In a tone of voice showing exactly how disappointing the half assed explanation was, Kil responds with, "You really know how to tell a story, Dillon. Come on, we need to get back behind the barricade!"

Kil gives the captured officer a swift kick in the butt and pushes the delaying Dillon, who's failing to explain himself clearly, back behind the barricade and to the make shift triage area at the foot of a lightly banged up shuttle's loading ramp where Lieutenant Lein Rand is, both her arms rebandaged and splinted now that the medical attendant was able to pin her down in one location for five minutes. The lieutenant's face suddenly shifts from cold concentration to surprised wonder at seeing Dillon's approach, and she moves to meet him.

"Corporal Gauss, we'd almost given up on- oh, no! You're injured!"

"Oh, this?" replies Dillon nonchalantly tapping his helmet where he took a bolt. "It's nothing, just a grazing blow."

"Dillon, no," says Kil, gesturing with his pistol laden hand, "The lieutenant is talking about _that_."

Following the direction of the gesture, Dillon looks down at his abdomen and sees the black ringed hole in his white armor just above the right hip and the blood trickling out of it. Tapping the general region lightly, Dillon finds it to be completely numb. Impressed, Dillon mutters, "Huh. When did that happen?"

Speaking quickly, Lein takes control of the situation and starts issuing orders. "Never mind that, we'll treat you onboard. Private Sammek, spread the word. I want everyone on the shuttle in sixty seconds, we're leaving."

As Kil gives a grunt and a nod, unable to salute properly with a gun in his only hand, and then heads off to get the process moving. Dillon though doesn't seem to really understand the order. "Wait a second. Lieutenant Rand, didn't you need more time for repairs?"

"They were completed a while ago. We can leave right away."

Still confused, Dillon presses his question. "If that's the case, why are you still here?"

Lein gives Dillon a knowing look and says, "Did you really expect me to abandon a member of my crew?"

Lien quickly walks away to speak with the medical attendant as people hurry past them up the shuttle's ramp. In the midst of the rushing around, Tomas Zere steps in to speak with Dillon so as to pick up the explanation where it left off. "We completed the repairs a few minutes after Kil arrived. We tried to raise you on the radio, but all we got was static."

Dillon connects the dots and realizes that the bolt he took in the head must have knocked out more than just the link to his telescopic scope, it killed his entire communication system. "Then why are you all still here? I gave orders for you to leave Kil and me behind if you couldn't raise us on the radio."

"The lieutenant overruled you," says Tomas matter-of-factly. "She said she wasn't going to give up on you."

Dillon is distracted by the bustle of organized movement, so organized that someone is already in charge of putting proper manacles on the captured officer before leading him on board the shuttle. "Hey, Tomas, you said there was no way you'd be able to get the Amberlinde's crew ready to repel an assault. When I got here, they look pretty well entrenched. How'd you do it?"

"Once again, that was the lieutenant," says Tomas with a deep chuckle. "She gave the best kick-your-ass speech I ever heard a naval officer give, though I don't think they do it very often, and got those people to try and pull their own weight."

Tomas steps away to help hustle the last people at the barricade over to the ship. A moment later, Lein returns with the pink skinned Zabrak medical assistant who starts leading Dillon up and into the ship. Half way up, Kil joins formation behind as Dillon is trying to explain what happened. "Lieutenant Rand, we don't need to leave so quickly, not any more."

"What are you talking about, Dillon," questions Kil. "Those Imperials were hot on our tails!"

"Yeah, they _were,_" Dillon stresses the important word in that sentence. "I was able to take them out in an ambush. We're enemy free now."

Overriding Lein's general soft exclamation of wonder, Kil's interjection is heard clearly. "There is no way you did that, Dillon! That was a full squad!"

"Go ask the Imperial I captured. He was the one leading them."

Waiting for Lein's nod, Kil heads deep into the shuttle as Dillon is led into a small alcove in the back. Just as the medical assistant begins undoing the clamps holding Dillon's helmet in place, Kil returns and says, "It's true, ma'am. The Imperial confirmed it." After delivering his news, Kil leans towards Dillon with an accusatory finger pointed. "You are _never_ allowed to say you're 'unlucky' again."

The attendant removes the helmet and Dillon smells unfiltered air as his head is released from its long confinement. Lein and Kil are startled by Dillon's pale and sweaty face, and the severe burn above Dillon's left temple, the hair around the patch gone. The assistant quickly applies a concentrated kolto gel onto the patch mumbling something about follicles and no other complications.

Getting a hold of herself to stay on the point of the conversation, Lein continues on. "You said before that there was no longer a need to leave the Ana-kin so soon. Why would you say that when there is no reason for us to stay here?"

Dillon explains himself as he helps the assistant with unlocking the securements on the trooper armor. "Well, on my way up here with the prisoner I got to thinking. I wondered if there was any way for us to repay that Imperial frigate on the ground over there back for their trying to kill us, and I had an idea. Do you think any of the turbolasers on this ship would still work?"

Lein's reply is very matter of fact, not seeing what Dillon is suggesting yet. "The Ana-kin has almost sixty turbolaser banks in all. It would be strange if they were all inoperable given her relatively good condition."

Dillon picks up explaining his idea, more hopeful now. "Well, I was thinking that if we could get a few of those batteries up and running we could blast that nearby frigate into slag. A little payback, and it would keep those Imperials from rejoining the fight later on. And besides, hasn't Ensign Sevik been dying for some target practice?"

As the armored breast plate is removed from Dillon's body showing the grey undershirt sticking to his frame, Lein's breath catches for a second. The bland lines of the armor had completely hidden the muscles that lay beneath, the now unanchored armored sleeves dropping down as well to reveal the biceps. The process is not unlike the curtain of a show going up, surprising the audience with the scenery that had stood there unseen all along. The moment of glory passes almost immediately as Lein sees the giant stain of blood, Dillon having bled mostly into his armor than out of the hole left by the bolt that wounded him. Lein goes pale and wavers back a little, still not recovered from her own case of blood loss. But even so, she gets back on the track of acting like a commanding officer, though not unaffected by the sights.

"That is a… a good idea, Corporal Gauss. I'll speak to Ensign Sevik and get a team together to see what we can accomplish."

Lein turns and walks awkwardly out of the alcove to get the operation moving, even as the Zabrak is mumbling about the numbness being a bad sign and not being answerable for the kidney. Kil and Dillon continue looking at each other, Dillon making a gesture with his face and hands as if saying, "You see?"

Kil responds by saying, "Oh, don't you even think it. You have a hole in your gut and I'm _still_ jealous of you. Face it, Dillon. You. Are. Lucky."

# # # # #

As the shuttle's systems power on, Dahn Sevik starts putting power into the repulsors to gain thrust. Next to him in the co-pilot's seat, working on getting the on board radio operating right, is Claurice Tennet, somehow managing to give the slowly responding electronics a withering glare. In the back of the shuttlecraft's cockpit in the extra seats are the wounded officers, Lein Rand and Dillon Gauss, who are quietly having a conversation with one another. With only a little hesitation, Lein asks Dillon if his wounds hurt.

Dillon fingers the sealed wound in his abdomen a little through the hole the medical assistant cut in the undershirt, noticing that whatever the medical attendant did restored some feeling in the area, but most of it being a low grade itch. "Not really. I mean, you don't have the time to pay attention to these things when you get them, and by the time you're free to notice them you're already use to the pain. This one here, I seriously didn't even know about until you told me."

Lein squirms a little, not very relieved by the answer even though it's honest. "Well, I'm glad you're not in pain."

The shuttle begins moving forward and out of the Ana-kin's hanger, revealing more of Hoth's horizon by the moment. The burnt out husk of the Imperial frigate can now be seen clearly, and a fresh smile of triumph spreads across Dahn's face. He probably never dreamed of being able to take out a frigate while he was under Duerno's command.

Dillon continues on, trying to change the topic. "I heard Claurice was able to get in contact with the fleet when she was in the bridge with Ensign Sevik and the others."

"Oh, yes. She not only got in contact but arranged for us to meet with the Medical Frigate, Coronation, and a flight plan to the meeting point. We should be able to rendezvous without getting caught up in the battle in orbit."

"Well, that will be a nice change of pace," remarks Dillon with a lopsided smile on his face. After a moment he sees Lein has a synthetic smile and appears to be struggling with a thought. "Something on your mind, ma'am?"

Taking the question as a prompt, Lein asks, "How did you do it?" When asked what it is he did, Lien continues on. "You solved everything. Every time a problem came up, you found a solution. When we first discovered we were marooned, I nearly fell apart. But you went and found an answer to all our troubles. You found us the Ana-kin. You came up with transportation. You fought off a group of Sith for the Force's sake! …How did you do it?"

"You're giving me too much credit, ma'am," says Dillon, not in an attempt to be humble but the fact that it's really embarrassing for him to be thanked or given recognition for his hard work. "I just offered a few suggestions. You're the one that made all the decisions."

"Please don't treat me like a fool, Corporal, I know that you were basically leading me by the hand on the Amberlinde. And every time we faced a challenge you made a snap decision that led to the best outcome. I'm seriously asking you. How do you do it?"

Dillon looks at Lein's face carefully. The determined and capable officer from before is gone, and she looks like the young lady that walked aboard the Amberlinde a month ago for her first posting once again. A combination of interested parties, family connections, good grades, and the lack of anyone else willing to serve on the Amberlinde had caused her to be ranked a lieutenant upon graduating from the academy. But she had never led anyone before and Duerno was a terrible teacher. Lein's face right now is that of someone looking for guidance.

Looking down to momentarily break the eye contact, ashamed of having someone looking to him for advice, Dillon reveals his thought processes. "I'm not much for dwelling on things I can't do anything about. Back on the Amberlinde I just thought, 'well, if we don't have anything we can use to get off the planet, how about I look around for something we can use.' It's nothing special. I just spend my time thinking about how I can improve the situation I'm in."

Dillon sees Lein mouth the words "Improve the situation I'm in" as if it were some valuable lesson. It just doesn't feel right. So Dillon continues on. "Well, you don't need my help to be an excellent officer. You already are one."

Surprised, Lein denies it, but Dillon continues on. "When I contacted Private Zere to set up some defenses he was confident that it would be impossible to get any of the Amberlinde's crew to take part. And considering Lt. Commander Duerno's failings at motivating the crew it made sense to me. But you actually got the Amberlinde's people to care." It's at this point that Dillon quotes some of the words Lyra repeated from the speech while Dillon was getting his first aid. "'These troopers have been carrying us on their backs since we landed on this planet. They have suffered as much as us, but continued to toil without complaint, and are even now fighting on our behalf. So what if we're a little cold? So what if we're a little tired? Aren't we suppose to be the pride of the Republic Navy? How long are we going to sit around being depressed and letting others do all the work for us?' It's rather inspiring."

A speech made even more motivating by the fact that Lein had immediately joined in the task of moving crates to form the barricade until the wounds on her arms opened up again. She was forced to go get treated by the crewmen that took her place setting up the barricade.

"I… I didn't say anything all that great."

Lein seems embarrassed about being praised herself. She may have become unused to it serving under Duerno. But Dillon continues on. "It's not what you said, but your sincerity. You said exactly what you felt, and you got the Amberlinde's crew to feel the same way as you. That's something that can't be taught, and something a leader needs to have. Take me for instance, I can't inspire people to save my life."

"I think you're selling yourself short," replies Lein with a real smile this time. Dillon notices that she looks really nice when she smiles.

The shuttle's boosters kick in, pushing the craft's occupants into their seats slightly as the machine begins the sharp climb into the stratosphere to attain escape velocity. As the moments pass, so too do the clouds which give way to the cerulean of the sky slowly going black. As the darkness draws closer, points of light begin appearing one after another, only to be drowned out by streaks of colored light and ballistics detonating in the distance amidst a field of debris that had once been manned vessels. The rotation of the planet had already carried the Amberlinde so far away from the front lines of the fleet action. The shuttle banks, the stars begin turning like the people in the cockpit are sitting in a planetarium, and the Coronation comes into view, one of several medical frigates dispatched to this battle, and various shuttles coming and going as the number of casualties and recovered escape pods continue to increase.

"We're almost there," says Lein a little wistfully. "The medic said I'd need to be kept under observation for a few days in order for the wounds to heal properly. It seems he doesn't trust me to take things easy on my own."

Dillon once again notices Lein's smile and replies. "Well, at least you won't be lonely. They're probably going to want to keep most of the Amberlinde's crew for a while, and they're probably going to strap me to a bed for a week."

For some reason, Lein pauses for a second before asking, "Well, since we'll both be on the same ship for a while longer… would it be alright for me to visit you in your recovery room?"

At Dillon's statement of how happy such a visit would make him, Lein smiles again and says, "One more thing. You can call me Lein if you want."

"Well, only if you call me Dillon."

"Deal."

On the other side of the bulkhead, just close enough to the open door to hear the conversation, Kil Sammek gives a mute whistle and happily says under his breath, "That lucky bastard."

_Name Appendix:_

_Zere: Pronounced the way "There" would be if you replaced the "Th" with a "Z"._

_Lyra: The "Y" has a heavy pronunciation, giving the "Ly" the same sound as the word "Lie."_

_Burnett: French pronunciation, so the double "t" becomes a "y". (Bur'nay)_

_Lein: Pronounced like the word "Lean."_


	3. Divided Conquest

**Chapter 3 - Divided Conquest**

Sergeant Major Dillon Gauss, now in charge of the one hundred and twenty men in the 1081st's Delta Company, is enjoying a quiet moment in his office. The walls of the hard shell barracks don't keep out the sound of the constant hustle going on outside as lines of troopers jog in full gear and supply vehicles pull in and out of the motor pool, but for Dillon this is the quietest his life can get after his most recent promotion. He's constantly called upon to lead training, inspect facilities, and oversee punishment. But for the moment he's got a few minutes to himself to enjoy Lein Rand's latest letter to him.

It's been years since Dillon and Lein started dating, shortly after the disaster on Hoth, but with the war they get very little time with each other. So in order for them to grow closer while they serve in different military branches with dozens of systems distance between them, they've started a mandatory question and answer with each letter. Ask something you want to know about the other, it gets answered, and you ask a question of your own. That system is probably the reason why Dillon and Lien are so close despite their situation.

Lien's question this time is, "What is your most common dream?" Dillon chuckles softly at just how good Lein's questions are, and wonders if he can come up with one that's as good as hers or if he should just recycle it. Looking up from the datapad to seek inspiration from the sky outside the window, Dillon sees a purple and red clothed figure out of the corner of his eye walking across the parade grounds. That's no uniform Dillon is familiar with.

In that quick flicker of eye movement, Dillon loses sight of the figure. Looking even closer through the window, Dillon continues to see nothing to indicate that anyone was even there in the first place. Was it just Dillon's mind playing a trick on him? The first few months after leaving his homeworlds Dillon thought he saw Harr, the family pet, out of the corner of his eye a dozen times… But Dillon was familiar with Harr. Has Dillon ever seen anyone wearing that kind of outfit before…?

Dillon's heart skips a beat when the door to his office opens without warning as the newly promoted Sergeant Kil Sammek enters unannounced, like he always does. "Hey, Dillon. You finished with your paperwork yet?"

"Yeah, just now," lies Dillon as he closes out the letter from Lein on his official datapad. "I take it you just finished your own workload, too?"

"For the moment," says Kil as he flops down into the chair facing Dillon's desk. No mean feat considering both of them are still wearing full trooper armor. "My squad is cleaning the kitchen today, so they'll be busy for the next hour. You know Dillon, it wasn't until I actually became an officer that I understood why you wanted to stay a private, but K.P. is one of those things I'll never miss having to do."

"I hear you," says Dillon, also sitting down, and gives Kil a quick study. The years have been good to Kil, as he barely looks like he's aged since he enlisted five years before. The recent promotion to sergeant has been hectic for him, but Kil's bearing up under the responsibilities nicely, probably because he doesn't take any of his responsibilities seriously. But Kil still has a skinny looking face, that much hasn't changed. Dillon's on the other hand _has_ changed. Dillon now has a patch of discolored white hair at his left temple where he took the blaster bolt on Hoth, and a shrapnel scar running from his right cheek bone to his ear. Dillon no longer retains anything of the look of an enlisted farm boy but of a veteran trooper, though a kindly looking one.

"So, Kil, what did you come in for? My office is a little out of the way for you." Dillon says that, but he has a good idea why Kil is here.

"Well, we had some more of the field exercises today, and I was hoping we could unwind a little." Kil's smile and the shape of his mimicking hand shows that he's hoping for a drink. The two officer's eyes meet in a short but good natured deadlock before Dillon gives in and opens the drawer of his desk, bringing out two glasses and filling them.

"We'll just consider this a celebratory drink, considering how we _stomped_ Beta Company this morning," says Dillon out loud, trying to give the breach of discipline a less unlawful air, "But only one drink. We're still on duty."

Dismissively, Kil says, "Bah, the lieutenant is off base getting our orders, like all the other L.T.'s. You're in charge Dillon. What are you gonna do, report yourself _to_ yourself?" Moving on to the next thought happily, Kil says with a broad smile as he smells the pale brown liquid, "But we really _did_ stomp Beta Company, didn't we?"

The daily combat maneuvers are the purpose of the entire 1081st being in this series of base camps, thanks to the influx of recently assigned troopers. Raw troopers are taught to fight in basic training, but with the wide diversity of the different trooper battalions they can only be taught how to be a part of their assigned squads once they're physically in them. So every battalion has to go through these training maneuvers periodically, company versus company, to learn how to act as a series of squads before being thrown on the battlefield. Some statistic or other has shown it to lower casualty counts, despite the two week delay in redeployment.

And Delta Company has performed remarkably, with a victory ratio of nearly eighty percent. Dillon primarily credits it to the fact that all four of Delta Company's sergeants came from the same fire team, from the men and women that were aboard the Amberlinde, and each one knows how the other thinks in combat.

After the Republic's defeat at Hoth, Dillon and the Amberlinde's actions were one of the few tales of heroism that could be lauded inside the military, and they were appropriately rewarded for what happened. Dillon had instantly been promoted to sergeant and given a medal while the other troopers were similarly well received, given corporal ranks on the spot. Tomas Zere and Lyra Burnett had gotten their sergeant bars a year later, a fact that Lyra holds over her older brother's head every chance she gets, while Kil had gotten his boost just six months ago. Their combined strengths have been filtered down to their units making them a varied and versatile company.

Lyra's cool and precise nature makes her a born sharpshooter, and she drills her company hard in discipline and accuracy. All the best shots in Delta Company are under her command in Green Squad.

Tomas always was a tech head, even going so far as to modify his own prosthetic hand to what he calls "Military Standards." Now that he's in charge of the Motor Pool and equipment, Tomas makes sure every man in his Blue Squad knows the in and outs of using their gear. Probes, meds, explosives, bots, and all.

Kil's naturally gung ho and fearless nature has inspired his own Yellow Squad. While their discipline isn't exactly up to standards, they're some of the more focused hands on the battlefield specializing in fast assaults and heavy targeted fire. They also have one of the filthier communication channels in the battalion.

And the Red Squad under Dillon's command is known as the most obstinate in the company. They're the best at entrenching themselves and holding a position or advancing under enemy fire. Despite the risky nature of their specialty, Dillon has been able to drill his men hard enough on relief and covering fire techniques that casualty counts are actually pretty low in his unit.

Those skills on top of the fact that the Delta Company's lieutenant, Pyrr Zic, is pretty damn smart. Dillon and Lieutenant Zic have been working on the company's tactics together for years, each learning from the other as they went. The lieutenant learned from Dillon's time as a regular private, knowing the ins and outs of a common trooper's abilities, and Dillon from the lieutenant's academy learning on battle tactics. And all that combined experience has helped them plan battles and accurately predict how their targets will react in these exercises, leading to their winning record.

Lifting his glass, Dillon makes his toast, one of the traditional sayings in the battalion, and a watchword to their commitment. "Where the fighting's the worst, you'll find the ten eighty-first."

"When you need a job done, call the ten eighty-one," says Kil, finishing the toast.

The glasses connect with a clink, and the two sergeants begin taking sips of the alcohol, savoring the taste. With a satisfied sigh, Kil says, "Confiscated booze is the best kind."

"Yeah, some of these troopers have good taste."

_Let me in_

"Hmm? Kil, did you say something just now?"

"Not me. Why?"

The sharp rapping at the door automatically prompts both Kil and Dillon to quickly swallow their drinks to destroy the evidence, hide the bottle and glasses in the desk drawer, and recline in absurdly uncomfortable states of relaxation to show how very un-guilty both officers are before Dillon loudly says, "Come in."

In walks a Mirialan in blue highlighted trooper armor carrying his helmet under his left arm. It's Private Avril Selende, who had been a member of Dillon's squad from the early days. The reason the green skinned man is still a private after six years of service is primarily because he is one of the least disciplined soldiers Dillon has had the misfortune to serve with. He signed up as a trooper to escape from his home world before he could be arrested for illegal swoop bike races, only to get caught intentionally and tried while enlisted. He would have gotten five years jail time on his home world, but as a trooper he fell under a more lenient interplanetary punishment code and spent three months in the stockade. That's Avril to the letter, a man that is smart enough to get through life in as lazy a manner as possible. He is probably still a soldier only because he's learned the ways to slack off as much as he can in the military and isn't interested in learning to sidestep work in a new career.

"Hey, Dillon, this message just arrived. It's encoded for your eyes only." A fact that Avril would not know unless he had tried to read it.

Dillon takes the datachip in Avril's extended hand while giving him an apathetic eye. Dillon had long given up on getting this trooper to use proper rank, since he doesn't consider him a friend, even in private. But Avril continually uses Dillon's first name by virtue of just how much time they've known each other. Avril really does know just how far he can get away with anything, even disrespect.

"You are dismissed trooper… And you are to report back to your post in surveillance and communications, no loitering."

With a click of his tongue, the Mirialan trooper heads out, disappointed that his chance to slack had been found out. As the door clicks shut and Dillon inserts the datachip into his datapad, Kil asks the big question. "Good news or bad news?"

"It's looking bad, Kil," comes Dillon's reply. "Epsilon Company never made their skirmish with Alpha Company today, and no radio contact since yesterday. Orbital observation hasn't seen any movement in the camp, either. We've been ordered to investigate since we're closest to their location."

"I can have my squad ready to roll out in ten minutes."

"No, Kil, we're not going anywhere near that place! I'll send a few of Tomas' probe droids, but no one living. Not until we have an idea of what's over there. Hopefully it's just a camp wide case of crippling food poisoning."

"Always the optimist, eh, Dillon?"

As the two sergeants stand and head out of the office to see Tomas in the motor pool, Dillon notices two things. The first is that he's feeling stone sober, even after downing an entire glass of hard liquor in one gulp. The second is that Kil is humming a tune softly, one that feels strangely familiar.

# # # # #

Lt. Commander Lein Rand has been trying to fall back asleep for a while now, but is being kept awake by the grinding of the air fans on board the Cormorant, the heavy Thranta-class Corvette she has been in command of for the past several years. Like Dillon, she had been promoted for her part in the events on Hoth. But also because a large number of naval officers had been lost in the crushing defeat in that planet's orbit. It's a strange feeling, earning command of a ship through political maneuvering and propaganda, but Dillon had been so happy for her that she has treasured the command ever since she received it. The only problem is that the Cormorant is now beginning to fall apart through overuse and lack of maintenance.

With a mumbled chain of what might be insults if most of the sounds actually existed in basic speech, Lein pulls herself from the bed and stumbles to the washroom to get a pair of earplugs. Even though she is addled from her half sleeping state, she notices with distaste the faucet that's been leaking so much she has to turn off the water at its source whenever it is not in use. As Lein sullenly pushes her disheveled hair out of the way to insert the ear plugs, she makes her first coherent sounds. "Stupid Hydian Blockade…"

The Mandalorian blockade of the Republic's main trade route is not only the greatest embarrassment of the Republic fleet since Hoth, but it's also choking the life out of the navy. Many ships are indefinitely dry docked because they can not even get emergency repairs, and even ships that have taken relatively little damage since the blockade began can't get the parts to keep up with basic maintenance. The last time the Cormorant was in dock all safety covers for conduits were removed for the scrap metal to try and get raw goods for repairing a frigate. That is how bad the shortages are. And now there isn't enough axel grease to keep the air supply fans running quietly.

A more awake mind would have reminded Lein that the civilians have it worse, starving, suffering blackouts, utility failures, and transit problems. But her sleep starved mind only craves a couple of things at the moment. Lein gets the first as she flops back under the covers of her full sized bed, a luxury only afforded to ranking officers in the navy. Unconsciously caressing the soft fabric of the long used set of practical and unfashionable blue pajamas she forced Dillon to buy for her, Lein soon gets the second. Lein had wanted something tangible to remind her of Dillon while they are away from each other, and with the pajamas reminding her every night she often has sweet dreams where she is together with her absent boyfriend. Tonight is another one of those nights, as she is visited by her memory of Dillon when they met that first day on the Amberlinde. Before he got the white streak of hair from Hoth, and before he was covered in scars from dozens of battles. Her boyfriend that hasn't had to put up with pain or misery, but can just be happy and share that happiness.

As their eyes lock and they slowly come close together, Dillon opens his mouth to tell Lein something very important. Dillon's eyes cross as he shouts a ringing chirp so annoying that Lein is startled out of her dream, propping herself up by the elbow. After the second chirp that is so piercing that it penetrates even the earplugs, Lein shuffles over to the edge of the bed, collapses face first into the mattress, and almost slaps the button for the communicator on the nightstand.

"**What?"**

Lein's belligerent, demanding, and pointed question causes the voice of Lieutenant Dahn Sevik, second in command of the Cormorant, to hesitate in answering her. As the second in command, he understands all to well that the only time Lein isn't amicable is when she is being robbed of valuable sleep.

"O-orders have just been sent from high command. Urgent orders. I've put them through to your datapad, ma'am."

The link cuts off leaving Lein wishing Dahn would sit on a nail as she picks up the datapad which is even now lighting up with the incoming order. Reluctantly reading it, forcing her mind to work, Lein suddenly finds that all thoughts of sleep have just left her. Slapping the communications button again, she gives the order to plot coordinates and go to Lightspeed immediately, and then dashes from her bed. A little too quickly as her foot gets tangled and she falls flat with a squeal.

Lein picks herself up and forgets the spill ever happened as she heads back into her washroom with the intention of getting presentable for appearing on the bridge to carry out her orders.

The Cormorant is to help break the Hydian Blockade.

# # # # #

The images shown on the monitors in the security and communication post are not pretty. Dillon can't think of any sight he's seen that is worse than this. It's not the blood, as there is barely any of it visible. It's not the death, as Dillon has been on dozens of killing fields. It's the method.

The images being sent back by the three probe droids that were sent to investigate Epsilon Company's base camp are showing that every single trooper in the facility died by their own hand.

"I've never seen anything like this," says Tomas, who is standing beside Dillon and failing to sound detached. "What in the systems could have caused this?"

"It's our job to find out," says Dillon, who succeeds at making himself sound in control while looking at the images of over a hundred dead troopers. "Tomas, I want you and ten men in full environmental gear to go to Epsilon camp and investigate. Look for toxins, gasses, machines, anything. And even though the droids don't detect any life signs, I want you ready for a fight."

With the cursory "Yes, sir," Tomas shuts down the video feed and gives the probe droids orders to gather at Epsilon Base's entrance to meet with the dispatched troopers on arrival. Before exiting the room, Dillon stops Tomas and tells the man with the asymmetric face, "Tomas, don't breathe a word of this to anyone. Brief your team on the way to the target, but I don't want this becoming common knowledge until we figure out what caused this."

Tomas nods sharply, his thoughts matching Dillon's, and then opens the heavy door to reveal the three troopers assigned to the large single room building with its banks of security monitors and communications equipment. The three troopers had been ordered to wait outside as Dillon and Tomas viewed the data sent back by the probe droids. Two were standing attentively, but Avril appears to have been toying with some entertainment program on his datapad until the door opened, as shown by his quickly stuffing the personal datapad into a pouch on his belt.

Dillon silently promises himself that if he catches Avril playing on a datapad when he's suppose to be watching security monitors, he'd force him to run fifty laps around the camp in full gear.

Tomas splits off from Dillon at a jog to round up some of his squad and to give orders to the corporals that will be remaining behind. Left alone, Dillon walks the grounds for a while to try and suppress the uneasiness the current situation has left him with. The physical activity begins to work as Dillon forgets how much time has passed when Tomas and his detachment depart through the front gate in the distance. Dillon continues to wander the camp, his eye inspecting the troopers in the slowly diminishing light of a sunset. With the long span of time all to himself, Dillon finds himself rehearsing the answer he'll be sending back to Lein in the form of a letter, trying to remember the most common dream he's experienced, either now or in the past, and soon finds himself humming a sort of lullaby tune. Eight soft half beats, followed by three slow beats, repeated for four measures. Dillon feels the nostalgia in this overly simple tune, but for some reason he can't remember the words.

It's at this point that a heavily breathing private in green highlighted armor with her helmet tucked under an arm runs up to Dillon, panting. Private Ta'say Tilah, a young Echani volunteer that joined eight months ago and favor's her long pure white hair tied into a ribbon secured knot on the back of her head, probably a part of a sub-clan culture. She's the third best shot in the company and favors a short sword sized bayonet that she can affix to the long barreled rifle on her back to form a short spear. It's rare for an agile Echani to be out of breath outside of intense battle, rare enough for Dillon to study her until he realizes she's breathing hard from panic, an even rarer event.

Tilah steps into attention and reports while maintaining a salute, not waiting to be saluted back in order to be relieved of the posture. "Sergeant Major, Sergeant Burnett reports a… an event that you need to be made aware of, immediately. Please follow me, sir."

"Alright, private, lead me to Sergeant Burnett. And while we are walking there, you can take that time to take a few deep breaths." Dillon doesn't ask Tilah to explain what happened. He's seen the nearly decapitated Imperial troopers that thought to charge Tilah, so anything that can leave a capable trooper like her shocked is something that should not be spoken about carelessly. And as Dillon climbs the final stairs of the reinforced wall surrounding Delta camp, his thoughts are confirmed.

Sergeant Lyra Burnett is standing helmetless a dozen meters along the walkway, her scarlet hair blazing an even deeper red in the setting sunlight, with two troopers standing guard over the corpse. All Dillon can recognize in the failing light is the red highlights to the armor, showing that the dead trooper was formerly a member of his own squad and that he is holding a knife. Getting up close, Dillon asks for a report in a detached and matter of fact manner.

Speaking quickly and quietly, Lyra explains. "Private Tilah and Private Duroon here were paired up for guard duty. About fifteen minutes ago she was witness to Duroon's apparent suicide. She immediately contacted me and I brought two troopers to secure the site. Tilah, please tell the Sergeant Major what you told me."

Private Tilah is visibly unsettled by the site of her comrade, and probably a friend, lying dead on the ground by his own hand as she gives a quick jerk before beginning to retell the events. "Yes, ma'am. About two hours into our watch, Private Duroon and I were sharing some small talk. Everything seemed fine, but for some reason Duroon stopped walking the circuit with me, making some small noise. So I stopped pacing and turned back to ask what was wrong. Before I could though, Duroon said, 'what' as if he were confused about something. The… knife was already in his right hand, and he… he suddenly cut his own throat with it."

Dillon kneels down as Tilah continues her explanation, shock creeping into her voice as she relives the event. Killing someone is different from watching someone kill themselves, requires different kinds of fortitude. Dillon can honestly say he probably would not have fared as well as Tilah in the same situation. Looking up close, Dillon can see the slash across the less sturdy ridges connecting the breastplate to the helmet and the large splash of drying blood arrayed like a melting fan on the left half of Duroon's body. "Looks like it was the carotid artery," says Dillon aloud.

"Yes, sir, I'm pretty certain it was, since his blood… sprayed out of the cut. And Duroon he… he shouted, and cussed like he wasn't expecting it to happen. He pressed his hand over the wound, but I don't think he could get any pressure through the armor to close it up…" Dillon notices the excessive amount of red covering Duroon's left gauntlet, lying limply in his lap. "Duroon stumbled and fell over almost at once, so I tried to give him an injection of kolto but… it didn't help. I called for Sergeant Burnett immediately afterward."

Tilah's voice trails off, her story finished. There is no 'sir' at the end, but Dillon was never a stickler for etiquette, and there is no reason to focus on something so pointless right now. Bending forward, Dillon carefully starts undoing the securements on the helmet, making sure he does not disturb Duroon's balance, and removes it. Duroon's face, lightly splashed with red below the left jawline, shows a mix of surprise and fear. It's not the face of a man that wanted to die.

Lyra picks up the order of events where Tilah left off, explaining that after securing the site, she tried to contact Dillon, but couldn't raise him on the radio. As such, she sent Private Tilah to find him. Dillon had turned off the mobile radio he would have been carrying in his ear to study the images from the probe droids without being interrupted and forgot to turn it back on. Dillon mentally kicks himself for that.

_Little trooper_

Dillon stands up and states emphatically, "You two will take the body to the camp hospital, it'll stay there until we can transport it. Private Tilah, Sergeant Burnett, you're with me."

_Little trooper_

Walking quickly to his office, not slowing his pace for anything, Dillon opens the door without pausing his stride or checking to see if Lyra and Tilah had followed him. On the other side of the door is Kil Sammek standing near the desk, his helmet leisurely resting on its surface, and his combat knife in his right hand fighting against the desperate grasp of the left as it wavers just centimeters from Kil's neck. Kil releases the strangled words, "**Stop me**," and then there's the flash of movement.

_Let me in_

# # # # #

Lieutenant Commander Lein Rand is nervously standing at the front end of the bridge, looking through the main viewport at the blue glow of the bubble of reality protecting the ship from being destroyed by hyperspace. She can feel the occasional glares of the fifteen odd bridge crew it takes to run a Thranta-class corvette, every one of them as nervous as she is. Everyone knows how badly the Jedi led offensive was defeated by the Mandalorian blockade fleet, and everyone rightly believes this is a death sentence. But orders are orders.

"We will be exiting hyperspace in thirty seconds," comes the voice of one of the bridge crew.

Lein gives her acknowledgement and waits for the end of the countdown. As the ship exits the envelope reality, the blue glow blurs into white streaks as visible light spectrums reach the human eye and then suddenly retract into regular stars. And then all peace comes to an end.

Alarms blare from console after console, target data flashes in front of technicians faster than the eye can read, and a storm of radio chatter erupts from speakers. The Cormorant shudders and bucks for a moment from the impact of turbolasers striking the hull and a light Corellian built freighter zooms past the front viewport dodging the self same turbolaser fire.

The report from high command hadn't lied, a fleet of smuggling craft has engaged the Mandalorians and they are holding their own. Lein sees the ruined hulks of several of the Mandalorian cruisers, two classes larger than the fleet of Thranta-class corvettes, their red and white long hammer shaped hulls visible from where Lein is standing. The entire operation is madness. Thinking that smugglers, fighter groups, and a fleet of corvettes could win against the might of the combined Mandalorian fleet is sheer madness. But for some reason, something inside Lein's heart is tightening, and shouting, "We just may do it."

"We've received our orders to take position from the designated fleet commander, ma'am!"

"Then get us into formation, and as soon as we are in place reroute power from the engines to shields! Victory will mean nothing if we don't live to see it!"

For some reason a little of the atmosphere of dread lifts at Lein's command. Perhaps it's from the thought of a competent leader giving orders, or maybe Lein's smoldering hope is infectious. But the Cormorant is going into battle hungry for the win.

# # # # #

Dillon has always considered himself an "acter" instead of a "thinker," and even though that fact has gotten him in trouble many a time over the years, especially with Lein, he's grateful for it at this moment. Before Dillon could even absorb what was happening in front of him, it was over. Charging Kil quickly, Dillon had grabbed the hand holding the knife and delivered a haymaker right hook to Kil's temple, then twisted the arm to drop Kil face down on the ground in an armlock.

"Drop it, Kil! Drop the knife!"

"I'm trying, man! I'm trying! I don't have any control!"

And that's where Lyra and Tilah walk into the office. The entire situation could have been called comedic, with everyone shouting in confusion, if not for the knife in Kil's hand. By the time Kil's fingers were numb enough to drop the knife, Kil had been forced to convinced Lyra to let Dillon out of the choke hold she had him gasping in. Tilah seemed rooted to the spot, staring at the three commanding officer pile up until she was ordered to close and lock the door.

Happily gulping in air, Dillon pulls out the cuffs he's taken to carrying since Hoth and secures Kil's hands. After helping Kil into a chair, Dillon can finally start treating the situation slightly normal again, and asks Kil what happened.

"I'm not sure myself, Dillon, but I have an idea. You remember when we asked Soun about those Jedi mind tricks they pull?"

Lyra asks who Soun is, she having joined the company after his assignment and later demise. Dillon quickly answers the question without taking his eyes off Kil, who continues on. "Yeah, Dillon, me, and some of the guys asked him about the mind tricks. He started explaining something about it, and right in the middle of talking he says to me, 'Say, Kil, those boots look heavy, you'd be more comfortable if you took them off.' And I did, while we were outside."

Dillon expands on the story, not patient enough to tolerate a pause at the moment. "Soun said the key to the mind trick is to make a suggestion that sounds reasonable, even if it isn't, and nudging a mind into believing it."

"Exactly, Dillon. When Soun made that suggestion about my boots, I heard this reaffirming voice in my head, and rolled with it."

"And you're saying that's what happened just now?" asks Lyra, beginning to understand the situation some.

"No, it was nothing like what Soun did," says Kil definitively. "Soun's trick made a suggestion, but what happened to me, it took over. It took all control of my arm, and this rhythmic beat kept pounding inside my head."

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Let me in._

"Like a song?" asks Dillon.

"Yeah. It's the one that's been buzzing in the back of my head all day. Suddenly I heard someone singing it and next I knew I was trying to cut my own throat."

Dillon has heard enough, and decides to start bringing everything together. "Kil, everyone in Epsilon camp is dead, they all killed themselves."

Kil cusses silently, fully understanding the matter he'd overheard from earlier. The other two people in the room are surprised at the confidential news.

"I sent Tomas to check it out earlier, thinking it was something some commandos did, but now, I'm thinking it's a form of using the Force to murder people. We already had Private Duroon off himself the way you tried, and more may be dropping as we speak."

Tilah interrupts. "You mean Duroon didn't kill himself?"

Cocking an eye at Tilah, Dillon bluntly tells her that Duroon was murdered. The private had been carrying an odd look on her face for a while, she probably had been blaming herself for not stopping Duroon's suicide, for not seeing any warning signs. In a few seconds, that permanently shocked and preoccupied face is flushed with relief, turning to disbelief, and then to anger as she asks, "Where's the bastard responsible for this?" The girl really is a warrior, through and through.

"Well," says Dillon, running with his theory, "I'm guessing we have a Sith somewhere in the camp. Soun said you needed proximity to mess with a person's mind and our target seems to be messing with a great many right now." Dillon doesn't add the words, 'including my own' as the buzzing of the song grows louder, the lyrics beginning to form in his mind. "Lyra, I want every soldier armed with a rifle, set to stun. No one is to carry a knife or any grenades, and no one is to move alone. Teams of three at least, and anyone acting like they are losing control are to be subdued and secured for their own protection. I want every trooper going over the camp with a fine toothed comb, and I want it done five minutes ago."

As Lyra begins relaying Dillon's orders through her hands free radio, she suddenly cuts herself off. Startled, she turns to the others and says, "My radio is turned off."

Snatching Kil's helmet off the desk, Dillon gives a quick inspection and says, "So is Kil's. This guy is damn clever."

After giving orders to Lyra and Tilah to spread the orders to every person on base, without splitting up from one another, Dillon begins giving his orders over the radio himself to anyone with their head sets turned on. Then Dillon issues an order to Avril in the security and communications building to send a message to command sharing when he'd found out. If Delta Company falls like Epsilon did, he'll at least get the word out.

As Dillon was about to head out the door he tells Kil, "Sorry, man. You're already compromised. You'll need to stay here."

Kil responds, calling at Dillon's back. "Don't worry about it. Just go kill a Sith… But I do owe you a punch in the face!"

But it wasn't Kil's words that chased Dillon as he left the office. It was the lyrics to the song. Eight half beats and three slow beats, like a relaxed lullaby.

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Let me in._

_In to your mind, and all that_

_Lies within._

_Show me all your secrets and_

_All your sins._

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Let me in._

# # # # #

"How are they doing it…?"

"Ma'am?"

Lieutenant Dahn Sevik asks the question of his commander reflexively, as he is trained to, though he's not really interested in the answer.

"How are these smugglers able to fight against the Mandalorians like this, with such a disparity of forces. Common logic would have seen them all destroyed before the Republic fleet could even arrive to help, so what are we missing?"

Lt. Commander Lein Rand has a lot of spare time on her hands at the moment, the entire battle being carried out according to the plans of the officer with the most seniority on site. While Lein does not really agree with the current layout of the fleet, it's formation being a little too static in her opinion, she has no power to complain. So instead she is doing what has become a habit for her ever since she got off Hoth. Lein is looking for a way to make the situation better.

At the moment, with the combined force of the Republic and this smuggler's coalition, the balance of fighting power is somehow tipped against the Mandalorian fleet of heavy cruisers. But it may not last. The secret to winning the battle may be in the method the smugglers have been using to fight.

Lein doesn't feel the shock as the Cormorant takes a series of strikes, it's just blended into the background noise of operators passing information and instructions along, and the grating natter of Communications Officer Claurice Tennet, the Invulnerable Biddy, who is currently emasculating the comm. officer of another ship for his tone of voice.

Despite the storm around her, there is no new situation cropping up that requires her to react. The battle right now just consists of "hit each other until someone falls over." That is the only reason Lein has the luxury of using the sensors to closely follow sets of smuggling craft and scan the Mandalorian ships they are striking, until one set of frames catches her eye. Running the recording back and watching it through eight times to be certain, Lein checks it against other recordings and sensor readings.

"Eureka," Lein whispers to herself. "Operations! How many fighter flights are under our command?"

The answer comes instantly, as trained, from a man three meters behind Lein. "Battle group Mu, Red and Blue flights, both with eight fighters, ma'am!"

"Communications, open a channel to the Red and Blue leaders, I want to speak to them!"

Claurice's eye rolling response of "Fine," comes as she punches the appropriate buttons, and then goes back to telling the nearly sobbing comm. officer on the other end of her line just why he's a failure as a man.

"Cormorant to Red Leader and Blue Leader. I'm giving you new orders overriding your conventional Fleet to Fleet combat protocols. The Mandalorians have been neglecting their space fighters, so you have been free to act on your own. From here on out I want you to act on a combined tactic. One flight is to intentionally draw the fire of a cruiser as the second flight moves in to strike, switching the rolls as often as you can. Your primary objectives are to draw turbolaser fire away from the Republic fleet and to destroy the turbolaser banks of the Mandalorian cruisers. You are to fly defensively at all times and only strike when granted an opportunity."

"I repeat, your primary targets are the turbolaser banks. Do not strike primary systems until our corvettes have knocked out the Mandalorian crafts shields, then you are to strike their systems hard and fast. Engines, power supplies, bridge, all of it. Are my orders understood!"

"Yes, ma'am," comes the crackling reply over the line. "Decoy action with a Bait 'n Switch, and culling the wounded. Rodger that!"

Lein is still not use to "pilot jargon" and needs a few seconds to make sure the repeated orders were really the ones she gave. Confirming the order, Lein watches the after effects intently. Within the minute the thumping of occasional turbolaser fire striking the Cormorant's hull slows, and the status readings on the Mandalorian cruisers within range begin showing pinpoint damages to their turrets, only a few at first, but once Red and Blue flights perfect their timing the damages quickly accumulate.

And as Lein watches, she starts seeing other flights picking up the same tactic, apparently the pilots like chatting with each other while they fly, and the Mandalorians seem hard pressed in the drastic change in strategy.

Mandalorians take pride in their strong attacks, and this fleet was able to turn back a head on confrontation with a fleet of Jedi. And that's the key, the fighting before now was head on. But it really doesn't matter how strong your attacks are if it doesn't hit anything. That is how the smugglers have been causing such havoc against the Mandalorians, they've been putting all their effort into avoiding the blockading fleet's attacks, and then striking back when the opportunity provided, hitting turbolaser batteries first, and then finishing off defenseless targets.

And now the number of small craft following that strategy has just doubled, with a fleet of warships to back them up.

As Lein is looking out the main viewport, she sees the fate of a nearby Mandalorian cruiser that lost it's shields. The proton torpedo from one of the Republic fighters pulling a dive bombing run slams directly into the unshielded bridge, smashing the hull open and annihilating the command structure. All at once the cruiser becomes silent, it's gun batteries and engines stop, all digital orders ended. The cruiser's head is cut off and the rest is left defenseless. Instead of continuing to attack the hulk and killing all the Mandalorians inside, the fleet and fighters change targets. The ship will keep until after the battle ends, with at least five hundred prisoners of war aboard, and there are more important targets at the moment.

As Lein watches the slow but sure change in the fortunes of the battle, she feels a rosy glow spreading inside her as she silently thanks Dillon for his advice all those years ago.

# # # # #

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Let me see._

_All of your fears, and your un-_

_Cetainties._

_Your senses and your vision_

_Belong to me._

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Let me see._

The song is getting louder as Dilllon dashes from one location to the next in the camp. Most of the stops are met with success, responding to explicit orders to group up and find the Sith intruder, but some of the stops are disastrous. Dillon found Private Tan hanging by his neck, having used his bed sheets to fashion a noose. And having turned a corner just in time to see Private Goldran use her rifle to blast her brains out. And the entire time, the song grows louder and more demanding.

Stopping to rub his forehead for a moment, trying to decide what to do next, one of the patrols Dillon got moving passes by him. Without looking or slowing in his stride, one of the troopers digs into his back pouch and pulls out a thermal detonator. Not pausing to even breath, Dillon body checks the private with his full weight as the trooper's thumb begins feeling for the priming button, knocking the trooper down and the detonator out of his hand.

"What in the great galaxy are you doing, private! I ordered all explosives and knives to be stowed! Why were you carrying a detonator!"

"I- I don't know, Sir! I thought I had left all my ordinance in the armory. I'm so sorry, Sir!"

More of the mind control. Dillon grabs the detonator from the ground and bobs it around to emphasize his next order. "All of you troopers, open your gear and double check it."

Going through their load outs, another trooper finds a combat knife he didn't know he had on him. Dillon confiscates that too and orders his troopers to be more careful. Then one asks Dillon a question. "Sir, what about your explosives?"

With a quick glance down, Dillon finds that he is still outfitted with his regular two grenades and combat knife. He hadn't remembered to un-equip them before leaving his office. He utters a quiet expletive in shock before ordering the troopers to continue their search of every nook and cranny. Dillon in the mean time heads to the armory, where he runs into a trooper on his way inside as well, a trooper that was surprised by the fact that he had been separated from his patrol group. Dillon quickly sends him running to find the group again, fully awake once more.

Dropping the extra ordinance off in the armory, making certain to include his own grenades, Dillon grinds his teeth hard against the song pressing up against his sanity.

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Let me hear._

It's getting harder to think, but Dillon has to get his head back on his shoulders.

_The stilling of your thoughts as_

_I draw near._

Dillon can't let this guy get the best of him, because he knows what will happen if he does. The same thing that happened in Epsilon camp.

_And the cries in your heart instilled_

_By your fear._

Dillon grips the top of an ammo crate hard as he forces himself to concentrate.

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Let me hear._

Having ridden the tide of the Sith's mental attack, Dillon relaxes his grip and breathes deep as he searches his memories. Soun Vhandok, the Sullistan Jedi Knight had been personable and talkative. Every time Dillon and his battle group asked him a question about the Force he always answered them in a way that could be understood. Like the time one of the guys asked if Jedi could really turn invisible, he showed them how it actually worked by getting one of the guys to look over his shoulder. While his head was turned, Soun used the Force to grab his beer from the other side of the table, and laughed when the trooper finally realized his drink had been stolen. "It's like that," Soun said after the chorus of laughter died down. "We don't actually turn invisible, we just make sure everyone around us is looking the other way. Or make people think we're not actually there, but that's the old mind trick. Doesn't work as well with droids, cameras, and guard animals, though, so I never bothered with it."

Cameras.

Instead of dashing around the camp, Dillon could have been using the security system to look for the Sith from the very beginning. According to what Soun once said, any wide area use of the Force requires meditation, like the famous Battle Meditation ability, but something like that can be done anywhere. This Sith could be in a closet, under a bed, or sitting in some rafters. Now that the Sith is in hiding, looking through the cameras would be meaningless!

But what if he'd been seen by the cameras before he went into hiding? If Dillon can set up a time frame for when the Sith entered the camp, he may be able to run the security camera footage back and look for the intruder. When did all this insanity start, though? Dillon remembers that he'd had the lullaby stuck in his head for a while, but when did it get in there? Kil started humming it shortly after mess, but could the Sith have…

Shortly after mess?

Dillon almost strikes himself in his exposed face. He'd actually seen the Sith, in his purple and red robes! How could he forget!

"Make people think we're not actually there…" repeats Dillon quietly. The bastard made Dillon forget he'd seen him. Whoever the Sith is, Dillon now has a time and place where he'd been seen last, now he just has to follow what route the Sith took to track him to his hole.

Dashing to the security and communications building, Dillon is blind to everyone around him, and everyone he passes. He doesn't see the corpse of a corporal with the knife in his heart. He doesn't see Lyra and Tilah wrestling with a crazed private to stop him from hurting himself. He just runs, and finds himself throwing the door of the security building open, startling Private Avril Selende who literally jumps out of his seat. The other two troopers on duty don't react nearly so badly, so Avril was probably doing something he shouldn't be again.

"Selende, show me which monitor is for the parade grounds, and then show me how to run through the recorded backlog, I don't know these systems."

Willpower and determination. Soun said that was the way to fight a mind trick, fighting willpower against willpower. And Dillon is fighting right now, even as he is scanning through the video footage on the monitor, looking at the time stamp and keeping his eyes peeled for the Sith to show up with that song pounding away inside his head.

Dillon almost misses the Sith's image as he flinches from the effect of the song, but he sees the Sith, rolls the footage, and follows him as he moves north out of the line of the camera. Remembering the footage time stamp, Dillon leaps to the next monitor directed by Avril that the unidentified person would appear in next. Three times Dillon follows the cowled Sith crossing monitors, grimly satisfied at tracking his target. From the parade ground to the mess hall camera, to the motor pool's camera, to yellow squad's barracks, and now on this camera, checking the tag under the monitor reflexively.

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Let me feel._

It's Avril's damn datapad, and like Dillon suspected it is showing the image of a cheap two dimensional game that's only purpose is to discretely waste time. While that is what drew Dillon's attention away from the camera's name tag, it's not what is important. The Datapad is floating a few millimeters above the surface of the monitor bank's counter.

_You losing your connection with_

_What is real._

Dillon snaps his attention back to the monitor showing the path the Sith took. It shows the security and communications building's only entrance, and the Sith calmly opening the door, stepping in, and closing it behind him. Looking up to his right, Dillon sees Avril with a slim smile on his face pulling the rifle free from his back.

_All of your knowledge is for_

_Me to steal._

Dillon instinctively reaches for his own rifle and grabs empty air. He never equipped a blaster. He forgot in his office and he forgot in the armory. Did he really forget though, or was it more of the Sith's mind bending? Dillon also doesn't have any grenades or knives as he- he still has his combat knife? Dillon could have sworn he put his knife back in the armory… no, it was the patrolling private's knife. The Sith tricked Dillon into holding onto the weapon that Dillon could most easily and quietly kill himself with. But by the time Dillon finishes running through all this in his addled mind, Avril has his blaster rifle charged and aimed, the black checkered tattoos common to the Mirialans under his eyes adding to the shadows to make his face all the more devilish.

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Let me feel._

Dillon is off balance, and has no chance of launching an attack before being shot down. Knowing this, Avril indulges himself, speaking in a cold tone.

"Hello, little trooper. I let myself in."

# # # # #

The fleet engagement is going well, but losses are mounting. Thranta-class corvettes were never meant to take on the larger classes of ships for long periods of time. They have guns, yes, but are not nearly as durable or powerful as a cruiser of any class, let alone Mandalorian cruisers. And the difference in weight class is beginning to tell, especially when the Lorion, the ship belonging to the commander of the fleet, is destroyed.

Almost immediately the fleet sinks into chaos. There is a sudden flare up of radio chatter as everyone is trying to figure out who is the most senior officer amongst them instead of trying to keep an eye on the movements of the fleets. The chain of command suddenly breaks, as the fleet was literally thrown together to deal with the smuggler's offensive against the Mandalorians there is no one designated as the second and third in command.

It's horribly painful to watch, as every ship begins acting under its own orders, splintering, pursuing, relieving others which opens gaps in the lines. Against all her discipline, Lein snaps and calls for Claurice to open a channel to the entire fleet.

"This is Lt. Commander Lein Rand of the Cormorant, and I am taking command of the fleet. Bryston, Restitution, take up a shielding position in front of the Vox. Ivory Dawn, pull back to _these_ coordinates and rejoin the formation. Fighter flight Beta, concentrate your fire on these two cruisers. Ranchel, Fortitude, Gigante, move to the incoming position to initiate a flanking maneuver. Justice, you are to fall back to these coordinates and get your shields back to full power before reengaging. Mythos, pull alongside the Helvestus to concentrate your fire on…"

The junior communications officer, an ebony skinned young man bends in to ask Claurice, who is unfortunately his direct supervisor, a question. "Is she allowed to do that?"

"She just did," answers Claurice, more than a little pride in her voice.

# # # # #

Dillon looks left and right quickly, trying to find allies in the other two troopers, who are still slumped in their chairs in the same position they were in when Dillon came in.

"You killed the other two?"

"Of course not, Sergeant. They killed _themselves_."

Focused on Avril and his rifle like they were a pair of cobras, Dillon keeps asking questions, hoping for an opening. "What is this all about, Selende?"

"I don't really feel like telling you that, Sergeant, but I can tell you what this is _not_. Personal."

Avril's finger slowly begins squeezing the trigger, not allowing the barrel of the weapon to twitch in the slightest, like a trained trooper, and the shadows inside the dim room are lit up by blaster fire as Avril's body is knocked away by the force of the bolts. A quick glance at the unfocused eyes shows that Avril's charred and steaming body is dead. And a look to his right shows Lyra Burnett standing in the open door that no one bothered to close after Dillon stormed his way through it. The faint steam of vaporized condensation is lifting from the woman's rifle barrel.

"What the hell was that about, Dillon?"

"Selende turned traitor for some reason. He either is, or has been helping the Sith that… What are you doing, Lyra?"

_Little trooper, Little trooper_

_I control._

"I don't know!"

Lyra's face is filled with surprise and panic, as she is now pointing her rifle at Dillon.

"I'm not doing this Dillon, I swear!"

Avril called Dilllon, "Sergeant." He never calls Dillon that in private, and what's more private than a room full of dead men. Avril didn't turn traitor, he was being controlled, just like Lyra is right now.

_Helpless to my power, can't_

_Resist my pull._

The Sith shouldn't be able to be this exact if he's operating remotely. He'd have to be somewhere nearby to have been able to switch targets on the fly. Looking around more carefully, despite having a blaster pointed at him, Dillon sees a lumpish shape in the far corner of the building's one room, sitting on the floor. As Dillon stares he clearly sees the features of the face, or is allowed to see them. The eyes and mouth are both closed in deep and peaceful meditation. But Dillon can clearly see the image of the Sith's eyes as they look at him gleefully, and the ghostly movement of the mouth as it sings.

_Relinquish your body and your_

_Very soul._

"Fight it, Lyra!"

"I'm trying! But I can't move my body!"

The Sith's eyes flick towards Avril's fallen blaster rifle and Dillon knows for a fact, almost as if the thought had been planted, that the Sith wants the two troopers to try and kill each other. And the Sith's ghostly features smile at him. Almost like that were the trigger, Dillon pulls his arms in tight into a boxing guard and rushes Lyra, who pulls the trigger on her rifle, crying out, "No!"

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_I control._

Dillon's forearms are pointed outward, the armor plating of the gauntlets facing out and drawn together like a shield, the shoulders contracted and pointed forward in the tightest boxing guard available. With Dillon's head down, the arms are covering nearly the entire torso from the bellybutton up to the chin. Dillon takes the first bolt in the left forearm, handling the force of the impact with his forward thrust shoulders and dealing with the searing pain of the heat on the point of impact.

The second bolt flies less accurately from the blaster's recoil, but does more damage as it strays from center mass and hits between the guarding arms to burn into the side, striking hard against the ribs. Dillon can instinctively tell that at least one rib has been vaporized halfway through.

The third bolt is fired into the ceiling as Dillon ducks low, grabs the barrel of the rifle, and displaces the muzzle's position as Dillon uses the quick uppercut he's so proud of, putting the strength of his legs into kicking against the earth, to uppercut Lyra right in the center of her chest, striking up and into the solar plexus to knock the air out of her lunges and send her flying out the door she had been standing in.

Spinning on one foot, Dillon slams the door shut with his elbow, grabs the grip of Lyra's stolen rifle with the right hand, and switching it to fully automatic fire. As Dillon completes the spin he brings the point of the rifle to bear on the Sith sitting cross-legged in the corner and pulls the trigger.

Dillon's finger doesn't move.

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Belongs to me._

The Sith's got him, and he knows it. The ghostly lips grin widely as they gloat over the control their song has. Dillon can feel the pull of his right arm as it begins creeping the barrel of the blaster upwards, Dillon using his aching left arm to fight against it.

_Your will is broken, you're my _

_Pro-per-ty._

"Damn you…" mumbles Dillon, who can't move his legs or swing his body to try and swing the blaster to the side, buy time, or any thing else. The injured left arm is all Dillon has, probably left free for Dillon to futilely struggle against his healthy right arm. The discrepancy in strength is telling, as the barrel inches ever upward. But Dillon can only wonder what he can do in this situation.

_Only in your death shall I_

_Set you free._

"Damn you!" says Dillon aloud, through grit teeth.

You fight against a mind trick with willpower and determination, right? That's what Soun said, fight willpower with willpower. If that's the case then there is only one thing Dillon can do as an act to truly solidify his own determination. It's horribly low tech, and he may not even make it in time… But all he can do is try.

_Little trooper, Little trooper,_

_Belongs to me._

"**FUCK! YOU!"**

As Dillon shouts his response, he lets go of the rifle with his left hand. The rifle swings up to rest under Dillon's chin as the left hand grips the combat knife, tearing it from the sheath and then stabbing it into the meat of his own right wrist. The impact is so strong with wild frenzy that the knife penetrates all the way through the wrist and up to the hilt, knocking the blaster rifle out from under Dillon's chin as his finger twitches and bolts are fired off into the ceiling.

Roaring with pain, anguish, hatred, and most of all, determination, Dillon grabs the barrel of the rifle once more with his left hand, brings the blaster down, aims at the Sith, and pulls the trigger.

The Sith looks startled, as he's probably never imagined someone would mutilate themselves without his forceful coercion, and leaps to his feet, the red blade of his lightsaber extending with a snap and a long hiss.

The automatic fire of the rifle lights up the room like a green strobe light. The Sith deflects the first bolt which flies right past Dillon's ear, singeing some hair, but Dillon does not flinch as he's too far gone in his haze of red to care about personal injury. The second bolt strikes the Sith in the chest, knocking him backward and into the wall. The third bolt is somehow deflected, but wildly, and it is knocked straight into the ground. The fourth bolt slides past the crumbling defense, as does the fifth, sixth, seventh. The Sith loses his grip on the lightsaber, it's blade diminishing as it falls from his grasp, but the Sith does not fall. For what seems like an eternity, the Sith jerks and shudders, his movements looking like the dance of a puppet in the green strobe effect of Dillon's fully automatic fire, the impacts of which keep pushing the Sith up and against the wall. The Sith's facial features change with each flash of the blaster rifle, the mouth and eyes completely different with each shot, but all of the faces carry the look of anguished fear. The entire scene is unreal as time loses meaning for Dillon, who is still shouting his war cry at the top of his lunges, his mind empty of all but the determination to survive.

It could have been a minute, an hour, or a day later that the rifle in Dillon's hand beeps and stops firing, overheated. And Dillon just stands there, staring at the Sith on the ground, watching his face to see if the ghostly features come back, unwilling to believe his victory over a trickster like that, even though the song is gone from his mind.

# # # # #

The Cormorant is shuddering under the combined fire of all the turbolasers on one side of a Mandalorian cruiser, and the shields are on the verge of failure. The Cormorant's neglected hull won't hold long under such heavy fire. The alarms of a dozen sections of the Cormorant are blaring all at once, giving Lein the disturbing feeling of déjà vu of being aboard the Amberlinde once more as it fell to its destruction. But Lein can't allow herself to hesitate.

"Mu Red and Blue squadrons, priority target incoming."

The screaming of the starfighter engines as they pass so close in front of the Cormorant's main viewport penetrates the noise and chaos on the bridge. The diminished squadrons make a straight flight towards the Mandalorian cruiser and all launch what proton torpedoes they can in the time left in their approach, one of Blue squadron's fighters getting blasted apart after only releasing one.

The impact for a dozen and a half torpedoes finishes the job of causing the Mandalorian's shields to buckle and punches a hole in their hull large enough for a shuttle to dock. But it doesn't stop the Mandalorians from their concentrated attack. At this rate the Cormorant will be finished before Red and Blue flights can finish the wounded cruiser off.

A new alarm begins blaring as one of the Cormorant's shield generators fails, a dozen small explosions pop as systems are overloaded, and one piercing scream echoes through the bridge. An ensign falls out of her chair gripping her leg to stop the bleeding from the chunks of shrapnel embedded in it. The safety panels covering the circuits at leg height had been removed from all the consoles, not just her weapons handling station.

One of the security garrisoned soldiers grabs the young woman and slings her over his shoulder as trained, hurrying the woman to the med-bay, Dahn Sevik leaping in to take her place at the damaged console.

"How is it, Sevik?" asks Lein, genuinely concerned. If the Cormorant can't fire back on her aggressor she'll have to order an evacuation immediately.

"I've lost control of half the guns, ma'am."

Taking a drawn in breath, Lein comes to terms with the result. "Then there's no helping it. I'll be giving the order to abandon ship as soon as I've notified the fleet of my relief." The chain of command must be preserved, even now, or the Mandalorians may still win the fight. The smugglers are keeping a large part of the Mandalorian blockade pressed and unable to move, and the movements of the Republic fleet have done an excellent job of picking apart the Mandalorian formation one ship at a time, but if there is no leadership then the hard fought for advantages will immediately be lost. The Mandalorians may eradicate the fleet.

"That would be a little premature, ma'am," says Dahn as if it were something unimportant. "I think I can take that Mandalorian out."

The shock felt by Lein was second to the rest of the nearby crew, since it was their lives Dahn declared he'd be gambling with. But the young man isn't paying any attention to his surroundings since instead of running the turbolasers according to the automatic gunning routines of the computer, he manually realigns every one of the remaining Thranta-class corvette's guns to focus their fire on one point. The hole in the Mandalorian's hull made by the proton torpedoes.

"You see," explains Dahn mildly as he is continually compensating for the recoil on each battery, "The hardest armor in a ship is always the hull. Once you get past that, it's nothing but bulkheads and safety walls. Nothing reinforced."

Turning to look out the main viewport, Lein sees every one of Dahn's shots either going in through the puncture in the cruiser's hull, an explosion and the fire of melting metal accompanying every shot. But it's obviously not enough.

Another system overloads and explodes over Lein's head, light fixtures and parts of the ceiling dropping to the floor. "Sevik, that's the main body of the cruiser, there are no primary systems there!"

"I'm not aiming for any systems, ma'am. I'm aiming at the cruiser's heart."

"The heart?"

"Please think for a moment, ma'am. Where do we in the navy keep all our volatile fuel for starfighters, ammunition for weapons, the high energy generators for our weapon systems?" Dahn pauses for a moment, not out of dramatic tension, but so that he can alter the trajectory of the turbolasers again before speaking. "We store them in the deepest parts of the ship, where they are in the least danger of being hit by enemy fire, where the entire rest of the ship is acting as armor. That is what I am aiming for. I'm going to burn a hole through their heart.

A desperate voice breaks out from the other side of the bridge, saying, "Shields are down to 17%, ma'am! We can't keep them online!"

"Lt. Sevik!" shouts Lein, her chance to save her crew disappearing before her eyes.

"I'm almost the-"

Dahn's words are lost to the light and roar of the cascading explosion, rippling out from the center of the Mandalorian cruiser's body, forward and back, blasting out of viewports, the hull, turbolaser batteries, and shattering the cruiser into three large chunks. It only takes a moment for someone to realize the ship is utterly destroyed with all hands lost, but everyone in the bridge stares in amazement as the pieces float away from one another. Swallowing hard, Lein finally speaks.

"Well done, Lieutenant. Carry on."

Dahn turns back to the station he'd inherited from his subordinate officer with a, "Yes, ma'am." The frost that had been climbing his spine beginning to thaw. And Lein goes back to her position to organize a push along the left flank and to get updates from the Cormorant's repair teams on the status of the shield generators.

# # # # #

Coughing on the ground, Lyra tries to get back on her feet. The attempt is completely unsuccessful, all the strength having been knocked out of her along with her air. From her position on the ground, Lyra is dimly aware of actions on the other side of the door. She knows that Dillon took her blaster from her, but after slamming the door shut he hasn't moved, the shadows of his feet being visible under the crack between the door and the ground.

Then, Lyra hears Dillon cursing someone, loudly, followed by automatic fire that goes on for almost a minute, the light of the bolts bright enough to bleed under the door. And afterward, nothing but silence.

Silence?

Lyra can no longer hear the song. But Dillon isn't moving from the other side of the door.

It takes another minute for Lyra to get her feet under her, still staggering as Private Tilah and the rest of her patrol group come up to meet her, having secured a half mad trooper and caught up with Lyra, who had run off after seeing Dillon Gauss sprint by them.

Having caught her breath again, with a faint thought wondering how strong Dillon has to be to have done that to her _through_ a suit of trooper armor, Lyra tells her troopers to be ready for anything, and kicks open the door. The four privates perform a flawless door breach, taking up covering positions at the door as they do a visual sweep for any hostiles in the room. But the only living thing is Seargent Major Dillon Gauss, standing motionless with a rifle pointed at the half incinerated corpse of what had once been a Sith.

Since there is nothing else living to point their guns at, two troopers keep Dillon covered, as they're completely lost about what is happening, circling around him slowly. Dillon doesn't move a centimeter, his focus and blaster staying on the Sith's body, a hard scowl on his face and blood leaking from the knife stabbed through the right wrist. A small pool has already formed at his feet.

Swallowing hard, partially to make sure her breathing is back to normal, Lyra steps through the doorway and speaks to her commanding officer.

"Sir, what happened? …Sergeant Major, are you okay, Sir?"

Dillon doesn't move. He doesn't make any indication that he even heard Lyra say anything. He stands there pointing his blaster at the corpse so long that the privates start to get nervous. Finally, Dillon speaks.

"Sergeant Burnett. Tell me what you see."

The sheer emotionless nature of what Dillon said strikes a chord in Lyra, causing her to do as she is told like it was a more conventional order. But she still feels that there is something very wrong, hearing that tone come from Dillon after having known him half a decade.

"I see… that you are injured. Blaster bolts and a… combat knife through your arm. We can take you to the hospital, Sir. Please come with us."

That is apparently not what Dillon wants to hear, as he does not react. One of the privates finishes checking the remains of the troopers who had been stationed in the security room, and shakes his head.

"And… three of our troopers are lying dead in here."

Still no reaction from Dillon.

"And there is a dead person on the floor in the corner. He's… burnt too badly for me to be able to tell much, but he seems to have been wearing purple and red clothes. And there is a… there is a lightsaber lying on the floor near him."

After a moment, still not moving, Dillon asks aloud, "Is this what all the rest of you see too?"

Disjointedly, the troopers respond in the affirmative. They've never been trained for a situation like this.

"Do any of you hear music of any kind?"

The troopers respond in the negative to their Sergeant Major, slightly stronger this time. And after a few long moments, Dillon lowers his rifle.

"Sergeant Burnett, take care of the casualties and assign some men to take over this post. Get word to our superiors exactly what happened here, and that Epsilon Company suffered the same last night. And tell them we most likely have an infiltrated spacecraft south of Epsilon camp's position, those forests would be the best place to hide something big and this guy isn't the type to fly coach. Oh, and have the Sith's remains burned, with two full security teams on watch for the process. I don't want anything left of this guy but ashes. If anyone needs me, I'll be getting treatment."

Dillon hands Lyra her gun and steps past her to go outside, thick blood drops falling from his forearm leaving a trail. Before stepping outside, Dillon stops though, as if he'd just been struck with a thought. Wordlessly, Dillon turns and walks past three troopers to the Sith's corpse, kneels down in front of it, and picks up the lightsaber. It is beautifully engraved with sweeping lines in a pattern to suggest stormy wind, and a metal pommel in the shape of a clawed reptilian hand gripping the end fiercely. Looking into the dead Sith's eyes, Dillon speaks to him in a tone of righteous judgment.

"This is _mine,_ now."

Dillon then turns and leaves, coolly somber. After his departure, a heavy silence hangs in the air, until one of the troopers speaks.

"Damn. Sammek's stories were true. He _is_ a Sith Killer."

# # # # #

"They're running!"

The shout is soaked with disbelieving relief, as the ensign in charge of the external sensor cries his news. The bridge erupts into an outpouring of released tension, so much so that Lein has to shout at everyone to return to their duties as she checks the readings to confirm.

It's true. Some of the Mandalorian cruisers have already made their jump to Lightspeed and the rest are ponderously moving to the jump point to make their escape. Lein quickly gives the orders for general pursuit, having all of the corvettes that are unable to keep up take guard positions around the crippled cruisers that are to be captured. Not too close or the Mandalorians may be tempted to self-destruct in order to take their enemies with them.

Another three cruisers are brought down, crippled and helpless, before the Mandalorian fleet has finished their retreat. Not stopping to pause and breath, Lein begins ordering sweeps for survivors and the recovery of life pods while sending status updates back to the Republic. The news of an enormous convoy of raw goods, heading for Coruscant, led by an armada of smugglers, and the breaking of the Hydian Blockade.

About two hours after the departure of the countless tankers, freighters, and light transports, an honest to goodness fleet of real warships arrive all in one jump. Their Hyperspace speed had been too slow for them to arrive in time before the battle had come to a close, and equipped with all that is required for such a large scale operation as the clean up and care of so many captured and wounded caused by the massive battle. It also signals the end of Lt. Commander Lein Rand's command of the situation, much to her relief, and the receiving of orders to return to her home spaceport.

The next two days after the battle felt like a peaceful dream, since the Cormorant had taken enough damage to require repairs and had been required to stay on site until they were taken care of. But Lein dreads the fact that the Cormorant is currently seventeenth in line for repairs because of the backlog of rundown ships caused by the blockade. But now that the blockade has been lifted, repairs really are underway again, the entire fleet being refitted with a voracious tenacity that Lein has never seen before. The entirety of the Cormorant's engineering and repair crews have been called in to help work day and night to get the starships flying again.

But Lein herself has nothing to do, but wait her turn. Until Dillon's letter arrives.

As expected of Dillon, the letter is fairly short. Just a break down of events, the base camp being targeted by an infiltrator that was captured in the end, a few scrapes and so on, exemplary work by his troopers, how much he misses Lein. Normal Dillon, but comforting. And at the end Lein reads his reply to her question.

_The most common dream I have, Lein? That's sort of a tough question to answer, mainly because it's pretty embarrassing. Nothing dirty, you know I'm not that kind of guy. But I think it's something I would have an easier time telling you in person, so I'll wait until you've picked me up at the transport terminal. I'll be there in eighteen hours, so give me a kiss when I land._

_Check the attached file for the details._

_~Dillon_

_P.S. Seems you have a little story of your own to tell me about the blockade. Way to go, honey._

Lein squeals with delight and does a few laps around her quarters, rehearsing the event as it will play out and trying to figure out what to wear, and where Dillon will put his stuff. Going back to the datapad that got tossed onto the bed, Lein flops onto the mattress with the intent to read Dillon's letter again until she's sidetracked by a newly arrived message from Lyra Burnett.

Lein and Lyra had gotten along well after they broke the ice on the med-frigate Coronation, especially since they're both intelligent young women from military families. They've had the opportunity to spend a lot of time enjoying each others company and have become close friends. But despite that, Lyra's letter puts her into a bad mood.

# # # # #

Stepping out of the landing corridor, carrying his canvas satchel, Dillon heads out a few meters and looks around for Lein, hoping quite strongly that the details for his arrival that he included in his letter had been correct. Dillon has no trust in his own memory. His self-doubt turns into joy at hearing his own name called and seeing Lein, wearing a light jacket over a bright dress with lots of loose fabric covering down to the knees. Rushing forward, Lein hops onto Dillon, wrapping her arms around his neck almost before he can drop his bag to get a proper supporting hold around her body. After a quick spin to make playful use of Lein's momentum and the following kiss, Dillon smiles as he lets his girlfriend down, saying, "So you read my letter."

"Of course I did," says Lein, smiling like a playful kitten, "I also read Lyra's letter."

Dillon grunts at the pain of having his injured rib squeezed hard by Lein, bending away from the pinpoint accurate grip out of reflex, Dillon's body bends into the shape of a C before he can stop himself. After escaping from the grip and righting himself, Dillon grins like a schoolboy caught misbehaving, which is appropriate considering the deprecating face Lein has, like that of a disappointed mother.

"Oh, so Lyra told you?"

"About the Sith? And how you got shot? And stabbed? Yes! But the real question is why didn't _you_ tell me?"

"Well, you were twenty systems away when it happened, I didn't want to worry you."

"What worries me the most is that you don't want me to worry! Let me worry about my boyfriend!"

"I just don't want you worrying when you don't need to. My rib will be regrown within the week and the arms were healed by the end of the day. I'm fine."

"How long are you going to stay 'fine' when you keep getting shot and blown up!"

"I was only caught in the one explosion, Lein. It was just a little bad luck."

"You almost died! You were still in the Kolto Tank when I visited you!"

"It was just bad luck, Lein. That's the only time I've been hurt that bad in my seven years as a trooper. It was a fluke. You don't have to keep worrying about me."

Dillon moves to hug Lein as she's on the verge of tears, and she accepts his comfort, pressing back into him as she says, "I just wish you wouldn't put yourself in danger so much."

"Hey, I'm here now. We're both safe and healthy. Let's just enjoy ourselves."

As Lein mumbles the word 'Okay' and wraps her arms around Dillon, she squeezes hard, causing Dillon to grunt painfully. She hit the sweet spot on his ribcage again. After the panicked apology where Lein swears she didn't do it on purpose that time, and Dillon giving the pain strained forgiveness, the two head off together to the terminal's exit.

"How long do I have you for, Dillon?"

"Two weeks. They've given me mandatory leave so I can see a specialist." At Lein's ferociously pointed look, Dillon hurriedly explains. "A Jedi specialist, not a doctor. Apparently the Sith I took out was named Lord Zomnos, or something. Like insomnia. He was a master interrogator, messing with people heads until they couldn't think straight. So they just want me to have a proper check up to make sure I'm not bonkers."

"…_Are_ you okay?"

"Of course I am," replies Dillon, smiling broadly. As Lein doesn't respond right away, Dillon heads off the imminent awkward silence and says, "Say, didn't I promise to tell you my recurring dream?"

"Ah, yeah, you did! What is it?"

"Ah, I just remembered… It's embarrassing, so I'd like to wait until we're alone before I tell you."

"Ahhh, no fair, tell me now! Tell me or I'll punch your rib again."

"Ah, hey, now _that's_ not fair. You're just going to have to wait until we're back at your place. In the mean time, how about you telling me about the Hydian battle. I hear you completely saved the day…"

# # # # #

Dillon awakens from his sleep with a start, cold sweat having soaked into the sheets under his broad back, and for a few moments he doesn't know where he is. At Lein's gentle snort, Dillon's recollection comes back to him and he begins pushing the dream aside. A dream where that damn insomnia Sith manipulates everyone around Dillon into killing themselves over and over again. But it's just a bad dream, it doesn't have any of the feeling of it being forced upon him.

Hopefully this psychology specialist Dillon is suppose to see, this Jedi councilor, can help him shake it off, since it's really been cutting into his sleeping hours.

Dillon uses his adrenaline fueled wakefulness to dwell on his dreams a while as he looks at the sleeping face of his girlfriend, pressed against him and holding onto his arm. It's a wonder Dillon doesn't have more nightmares, after all the things he's seen in this war. Mass graves, burned skeletons of cities, and humans turned inside out by explosions. Oddly enough it's only when he felt helpless to do anything that it really affected him, caused him to lose sleep. Is it because he's been desensitized after all this time?

Looking closely at Lein's sleeping face, Dillon dismisses the thought. If he were so desensitized he wouldn't be able to appreciate just how much Lein's love means to him. Just how much he wants Lein to be happy. Just thinking about the face she'll make when he has to ship out again in a few weeks is painful. But it can't be avoided. Lein is a naval officer and Dillon is a trooper. They're both being pulled to their duty, and Dillon's will be keeping him busy for the few month. Alpha company and Delta company are going to be in charge of getting the new Epsilon company in shape to become a part of the 1081st proper, not including the twelve replacement troopers Delta will be getting after that Sith ran amok. It's going to be time consuming, but it will keep Dillon off the front lines for a while, so that should make Lein happy.

Maybe Dillon and Lein can get some time off at the same time? Go on a little vacation on Alderaan? There's no prettier planet in the galaxy for a date, they say.

"Dillon…? You awake?"

"Oh, sorry Lein," whispers Dillon. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay," mumbles Lein softly, Dillon being the only person that can wake her up without earning her ire. "Hey, Dillon… Tell me your dream again…"

Lein snuggles up closer, putting her head on Dillon's muscular shoulder as he plants a gentle kiss on her forehead before going into his recurring dream again. "I dream that I'm back on Tyrill, one of my homeworlds, near the farm. And everyone I know is there celebrating the Eclipse at the festival. The music is everywhere, people are dancing and smiling, and in the distance the crops are budding. And you can smell the flowers on the wind. Everything is peaceful and happy, loving life without fear of anything. And then you drag me out into the square, with its decorations in all the colors of the rainbow and force me to dance with you. As the music plays on, our feet leave the ground and we're dancing on the air. We dance and laugh, carrying on and on for time without end, with everything as perfect as you can imagine."

Lein's gentle moan reaches Dillon's ears, and he hopes that she can see it. The dream Dillon has whenever he goes to sleep happy, of a universe where no one has to be afraid and can just concentrate on living as well as they can. The dream that Dillon is fighting for so fiercely. But now there is something else Dillon is fighting for.

Dillon is fighting for the right to come back to Lein at the end of every campaign. After all, Dillon wants her to be happy, and she seems really happy with her boyfriend wrapped in her arms. And Dillon is happy, too.


	4. Rock Bottom

**Chapter 4 - Rock Bottom**

The sound of shouting and the thudding of feet is everywhere inside Delta Company's camp as troopers run around like a disturbed anthill. The armory has a line of fully armored troopers running past it, grabbing rifles thrown to them, digging grenades out of boxes, snatching up fully loaded service backpacks, and stowing them all at a pace of twenty seconds each. Light personnel transports are filled in less than a minute, a double pound on a bulkhead signaling the driver to blaze his way out of the camp and make room for the next transport to load. A heavy duty treaded vehicle ready for retirement but the only thing capable of handling the weight is getting loaded with food supplies in the form of MREs and portable soup, a nasty condensed glue that can be diluted into a fluid as nourishing as it is pungent.

As a daisy chain of four sets of two troopers toss the vile crates of portable soup up and into position, Sergeant Major Dillon Gauss turns the corner of the storage unit and hails the trooper overseeing the operation. "Duds! Status!"

Turning sharply, the trooper from Green Squad salutes and gives his report. If he wasn't wearing his helmet, Dillon would have been able to see the lazy eye of Corporal Melnek, nicknamed Duds for his skill, and luck, in defusing explosives in the field. "We'll have the Crawler fully loaded and on her way in a couple minutes, Sir! But I don't know if we can make our way through the forest."

Dillon digs into a large belt pack and brings out a set of trophy lightsabers he'd claimed from Sith he'd personally defeated and puts them into Duds' hands, saying, "Cut down anything that gets in your way." Dillon turns to go almost before he reminds the trooper that he'll be wanting his trophies back later, and then busts out into a run.

Dillon sprints past some troopers in Yellow Squad piling into a transport and comes to a half stop when he hears Sergeant Kil Sammek's voice shout, "This is the last of my boys, Dillon! Make sure you catch up with us!" Replying with only a wave to the gangly leader of the brash, destructive, and reliable Yellow Squad, Dillon ramps up his dashing speed again even as Kil's transport kicks up dirt with its initiating hover engine to speed out of the camp heading east.

Ducking into the motor pool, Dillon sees the last of the heavy ordinance and ammo dropped into position by freight lifts onto the back of the camp's second crawler and getting securely clamped into position. As Dillon is giving the scene a quick once over to make sure there is no chaos, he hears the engine of the food laden crawler trundling past the motor pool's entrance. As if on cue, the driver of the ordinance crawler presses the horn hard, filling the building with the deep resonating bellow. The driver pops her beefy and stern looking face out of the drivers side, showing it's Corporal Lanchet at the wheel. Having worked as a planetside cargo hauler, she's perfectly used to carrying freight and driving heavy machinery of any variety. With a bellow that is almost as loud as the crawler's horn, she cries her message, dropping entire syllables for the sake of volume. "**Aaaaa'ight boys! We're moooovi' ouuuuu!**"

The Crawler's heavy engine lets out a blast of noise and Lanchet pulls out of the motor pool and in line behind the food hauler, the noise almost canceling out Lanchet's howling cackle of laughter, the joy of contolling a heavy duty engine overcoming her scant discipline.

As Dillon nears the sergeant in command of Green Squad, a chocolate skinned man with an asymmetric face by the name of Tomas Zere, Dillon stops dead in his tracks as he picks up the piercing whine of an Imperial fighter. Dashing back to the entrance of the motor pool's warehouse sized building, Dillon pokes his head out just in time to see the spacecraft fly over the encampment and the turrets of the crawlers opening fire. Despite Dillon's burning, unuttered pleas to fate, only a few of the bolts strike the scouting fighter and it is able to escape the range of deadly effect with only a trail of smoke emitted by a lightly damaged engine. The pilot has all the time in the world to relay Delta Company's position. With that dread distraction gone, Dillon dashes back to Tomas.

"How much longer do you need here?"

Without looking up from his work, plugging a hardline data jack into anti-vehicle mines and using an inserted typing routine in his inhumanly quickly typing prosthetic right hand, Tomas replies. "This is the last stack."

"And the other surprises?"

Dillon is referring to the half a dozen large crates that are being loosely resealed, and the crates of explosives being secured to the back of a group of speeders. "All ready to go."

"Good. The remaining half of Red Squad will be pulling out with what Green troopers are left. You'll be heading out with the speeder bikes? …Good. Set up the playing field, the away team may be arriving soon."

Dillon turns and walks away even as a line of Green Squad troopers grabs up the anti-vehicle mines and hurries out to set them up. Released from his task, everything in the camp he was charged with complete, Tomas jogs over to a vacant speeder bike and joins the four man formation led by Corporal Zilas of Yellow Squad, a Mirialan woman that grew up on a nature preserve, which helped serve as a foundation for her becoming the best scout Delta Company has seen in Dillon's eight years as a trooper. With a rippling shudder of sound, the bikes fire up and pull out of the motor pool to meet up with the rest of Delta. Dillon and the remaining twenty four troopers in the camp are stuck until the light transports have dropped off their current cargo of troopers and made their circuit back to the camp.

The next several minutes are excruciating. The pressure of waiting, not knowing how long it will take until a strike team of Imperials show up, and they will show, is so suffocating that Dillon feels the need to remove his helmet to get some clean air. Dillon's dark blond hair, dark to the point of almost being considered brown, has grown out in the last year to the point where he needs to comb it to be presentable in public. As a trooper he ordinarily would have it cut closer, but his girlfriend Lein bothered him enough about it to get Dillon to grow it out. What bothers Lein, though, is the shrapnel scar on Dillon's right cheek that runs to his ear and the streak of white from blaster damaged follicles on Dillon's left temple, Lein always dreading the idea of Dillon being hurt in combat.

Dillon stands with the remaining fifteen Red Squad troopers inside the base as the nine members of Green Squad finish setting up the welcoming party for the Imperials. Straining his ears for any hint of the sound of engines, friendly or otherwise, Dillon hears the heavy thud of another mine being magnetically locked into place. It's been less than an hour since the invasion fleet popped out of hyperspace in orbit and began tearing through the planetary defenses, forcing Delta to act quickly. It was obvious there was no way to stop the invasion, so Delta either had to run or put up a last stand over their own little plot of dirt. It took a total of two minutes for the Lieutenant and the staff of four sergeants to come up with their plan, but an ordered evacuation takes time.

Time.

The seconds tick by.

The minutes grind past.

And Dillon can do nothing but pace back and forth in front of the lined up troopers. He's walking slowly, but his heart is pounding madly and his breathing is fast and deep with the exertion of remaining calm in front of his troopers. But the anxiety coming off Dillon is affecting his troopers as well. Dillon even sees Private Danobe, a farm raised boy like himself that idolizes Dillon for some reason, tremble slightly for a few moments before getting a hold of himself. If Dillon were a little more calm he could give a speech to lift their spirits, but he's not. Dillon can't stand standing around like this, for all intents and purposes, being helpless.

Dillon's heart actually skips a beat as he hears the light transports roar through the camp entrance, and he puts his helmet on again to try and mask his relief over it being a Republic manufactured engine he'd heard. As the three vehicles pull up, Dillon assigns eight troopers per transport and jumps in the passenger seat for the last, making sure no trooper has been left behind.

Feeling the vibrations of the engine through the passenger seat, Dillon starts to feel some relief despite the omni-present knot in his chest. No matter how well things are going Dillon can't shake his bad feeling. After entertaining the idea a little, Dillon decides to distract himself with the transport's driver.

"You're Private Corden, right? I've never spoken with you before. You were, what, forty when you enlisted? Why become a trooper that late?"

A little startled by the attention, the man hesitates to answer. "Well… I had my own shop, a speeder repair shop, not that long ago. But, well, the Hydian blockade happened and I couldn't get any materials. I lost the business and, well, being a trooper was the only work I could find."

The man is obviously embarrassed by this fact, what with being surrounded by troopers with a drive for what they do, and here he is treating it like a job. "Well, don't worry about it, Corden. We appreciate having you with us. There's a lot of men not brave enough to do this job, and I'm glad to have you-"

The whine is faint, but it's there, tickling Dillon's ears over the sound of the transport's engine. Dillon almost pulls himself halfway out the window on the side of the transport and starts looking at the sky until he sees it. A flight of three Imperial fighters screaming towards the transports from the south on an intersecting course. Dillon pulls himself back inside the cabin and masters a panicky desire to order Private Corden to drive faster, since he and all the other drivers had been going as fast as possible since the evacuation began. Instead, Dillon opens a channel to all the drivers and does something useful.

"Sergeant Gauss to transport team, we have incoming Imperials from the south. Ready countermeasures on my mark."

Dillon stares at the inbound fighters as if he could will them to explode. Watching their movements carefully, watching for a sign. A strafing run? Missiles? Bombs? Whatever it is will require different timing if he wants anyone in the transport train to survive. As he watches, his breathing echoing inside his helmet, the fighters point themselves directly at the convoy instead of tipping down to bring guns to bear, or up to skirt a bomb blast. That leaves…

The flare of ignition and contrail of smoke from the concussion missiles appear at the same time as Dillon begins giving his instructions. "Maintain course and speed! Ready! …Mark!"

The concussion missiles are altering their trajectory on their own, so Dillon is staring at the nose of a rocket powered bomb with his name on it until he gives his signal. A faint thud emanates from the roof and a sharp crack sounds from the space above the transport, then the entire world around Dillon is shrouded in smoke. The transport's only defensive equipment, a low grade smoke screen that blocks sight and scrambles emissions. But Dillon sees it is enough as the concussion missile aimed for his transport flies overhead, its thruster flaring bright through the dense smoke, and three explosions are heard coming from the left of the convoy, the north side, evidence that not one of the missiles hit their mark.

But the speed at which the transports are moving will quickly take them out of the screen's effective radius. "Transport team, ready second-"

The random shots of the strafing Imperials explode throughout the smoke drenched area, and one lucky shot strikes home as Dillon's world explodes in noise, fire, and a shockwave that presses through him, forcing all the air from Dillon's lungs as his vision goes black. The only reason Dillon knows time has not passed is that as soon as he shakes his head to clear the cobwebs, he hears the screaming whine of the Imperial fighters passing overhead through one ear, the other producing only a high pitched squeal. The air is still filled with the smoke from the screen, but it's thinner and much was blown away by the explosion and the displacement of the fighters buzzing overhead. Taking stock of the situation as quickly as his mind allows, Dillon sees that the transport's front end, it's engine, has been destroyed by the strafing fire of the fighters. The transport is resting right side up on the ground, so it was most likely a sliding impact as opposed to a disastrous rolling crash. And a limp Private Corden has what appears to be a drive shaft impaled through his chest. After a soft expletive, Dillon shoulder slams his door open to half tumble out of the ruined transport and hurries to the loading access in the back.

Turning the corner, Dillon sees Corporal Renten sorting out the chaos and getting the troopers on the move. Renten is a young woman who's entire family ran a thrift shop until they abandoned their homeworld just before it fell to the Sith a couple years ago. Instead of becoming refugees, every one of the twelve member extended family chose to enlist in military service. Today's violence must be bringing the past back to mind for her, but she's showing her determination by having already gotten the back of the transport into order.

"Report!"

With an informal salute, Carla Renten gives her report. "Prescal is dead, sir, Green Squad's Forcrest seems to be unconscious, but breathing…" Renten's report is punctuated by the sound of two troopers heaving a slab of metal off the unconscious Forcrest while a third drags him out. "And Halvrett says he can't move his arm."

Dillon sees Private Halvrett, the one time bakery clerk being supported by a female trooper, his arm dangling but not in an unnatural way. If it's a dislocation or a simple fracture, the field medics should be able to patch him up on the fly. "The driver is dead, Renten, and the transport is useless. We're running for the tree line. Get everyone moving, fast."

"You all heard the Sergeant! Davies, you're carrying Forcrest! Everybody, move!"

The designated trooper, a human built like a Gamorrean and with a face to match, lays the unconscious man over his shoulders and grabs the arm while pinning the leg in place to form a secure yoke before standing up as if he were carrying a sack of rice. In a widely spread body, the troopers begin their mad dash to the relative safety of the large forest ahead, Halvrett gripping his hanging right arm to prevent it being jostled by the run. The entirety of existence for the troopers dissolves into the sound of their own heavily laden steps and their labored breathing as they struggle desperately to make their way to cover about three hundred meters away. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dillon happily recognizes that none of the other transports were hit by the strafing run, but that also means that Dillon's transport group are the only targets on the wide open plains.

Dillon's heart plummets as he hears the distant whine once again, and a quick look over his left shoulder shows the Imperial fighters have finished their turn and are making a second pass over the field.

"Keep running! Don't stop for anything!"

The red bolts the size of a man's thigh strike the ground, over and over again, making the earth erupt like a dozen geysers. Each impact drowns out all other sound and the shock wave of the energy released leaves Dillon and the other troopers feeling like they are being battered by storm winds on all sides. Ahead of him, Dillon sees Davies stumble and fall, rolling along the ground with his charge, before he rolls back onto his feet, snatches up the man he was carrying, throws him over his shoulder, and begins running again with a noticeable limp and grunting heavily with every pace.

As the fighters scream past and the world ceases to explode, Dillon risks turning his head around to look at the damages, prepared to run back to check on anyone who isn't on their feet and running. Thankfully, space fighters are not designed for accuracy against ground forces as small as individual troopers, and there appear to be no casualties from this last run. Thank the Force for small favors.

Reaching the tree line at last, Dillon and the rest of his troopers come to a panting halt in its shade. Corporal Zilas quickly winds through the forest, half decayed leaves from the previous year's autumn being kicked up by the speeder bike, and comes to a halt in front of Dillon. "S-Sergeant Major, Sir," says Zilas, who is universally nervous when speaking to other people. "The Lieutenant says everything is ready, and h-he's just waiting for you to take position. I'm here to help. With the wounded, that is… Sir."

Dillon quickly calls Davies over. As the bulldog of a man places the unconscious Forcrest on the back of the speeder bike, Dillon tells him, "You too, Davies." Against the man's one syllable protest, Dillon continues. "It's an order, Davies. I'm not risking your leg." With obvious difficulty, the man sits himself on the back of the speeder, his depression over being left out of a battle obvious even as he is hurried away, Halvrett jogging to keep up. Dillon is sorry to bench Davies, as he's a damn fine trooper. Hard to handle sometimes, but damn scary in battle. But Dillon needs his troopers to have solid legs today, as Red Squad will be acting as the rear guard and will need to keep highly mobile.

Slowly pacing the grounds towards the chosen position, Dillon sees some troopers of Green Squad pounding the ground with their collapsible spades, and then shuffling the ground cover to blend the recently turned earth in with the rest of the field. Looks like the party favors are in place. And further on, Dillon sees the targets he and his squad are here to protect. The two Crawlers with their heavy loads, food and ammunition, that the company will need if they're going to do anything in the days to come. Even with the effort of all of Green Squad working together, they are only making a slow but definitive progress through the forest, knocking some trees down on their own, and driving over other trees cut down with Dillon's lightsabers. But there is no way they'll be out of harms way if any Imperial ground forces arrive.

When Kil had heard the initial plan he had been surprised by the delay inherent in the entire operation. Cutting a road through woodlands while on the run seemed like madness to him. But Lieutenant Zic had explained it as an investment where we pay now and profit later. If we can successfully pull off getting so many supplies from our base now, we'll be able to stash it all in isolated supply dumps we can access later while we fight a guerilla style war against the invading Imperials. We'll have food and explosives long after we'd normally be reduced to eating our leatheris belts and tree bark.

But that bright future depends on the hard work of these troopers right now. The best outcome would be if the Imperials decided to ignore the men and women of the 1081st, but hope won't stop a blaster bolt. Opening the comm. channel in his helmet, Dillon hails the command staff of Delta Company. "This is Gauss, I'm setting up the rear guard. How about everyone else?"

Sergeant Lyra Rand in charge of Blue Squad responds first. "I have my people dug in with the clearest firing lines we can get. If we see any heads, they'll be busted."

Tomas gets on the channel next. "_All_ the explosives are primed and ready, including the ones we hooked into the transports. Any Imperials that try using them for cover will get a nasty surprise."

Amongst the sergeants, Kil joins the conversation last. "My kids are standings ready for whatever comes our way. You just hold the center tight, Dillon. And by the way, that was a nice run out there. _Some_ of us were afraid you weren't going to make it," says Kil suggestively, in a mocking half sob.

"Kil, you do realize I can see your head from here," comes Lyra's quick, calm response, to which Kil snickers into the live feed

"Calm down, everyone. Don't force daddy to get the belt." Lieutenant Pyrr Zic's deep, manly voice rumbles over the radio channel. Lt. Zic is the kind of man you want to hate but you can't. Born from a vacation resort planet, the absurdly handsome blond and blue eyed man is representative of his entire gene pool. Every man in the company has to pretend they don't notice the women's eyes tracking him everywhere Lt. Zic goes, but since he's such a humble and likable guy there isn't a trooper that can hate him, despite their best efforts. His nickname in the company is Captain Republic.

With all the squads reporting their status, Dillon sees to spreading the defensive lines and getting everything ready. It only takes a few minutes, and Dillon soon heads over to his chosen point in the defensive formation, putting his back against an old growth tree for cover, and waits.

The seconds tick by and the minutes slip past. But this time, Dillon is calm. This is a situation where he has control over the outcome, no matter what happens. Good or bad, life or death, Dillon will have some control. Just that slight difference changes everything, and when Dillon hears the grinding roar of the heavy Imperial troop shuttles overhead, he feels a surge of excitement atop the adrenaline.

A lookout from Yellow Squad reports the numbers over the radio. Two heavy shuttles landing inside the abandoned camp and another two diverting towards the tree line, where the fighters saw the light transports enter. As the heavy transport shuttles touch down just outside the limits of the trees, Dillon whispers the word "steady" over the radio to his troopers, some ludicrous instinct telling him he needs to be as quiet as possible even with his head sealed in an armored jar. This entire operation requires surprise. And it'll be delicious to let these Imperials taste some of their own medicine.

As the Imperial Troopers file out of their transports, one full squad per shuttle plus their Sith taskmasters, Dillon finds himself relishing the passing moments, waiting for the surprise to be sprung.

# # # # #

The Imperial heavy transport shuttle settles on the ground in the camp hard, the joints of the landing legs almost bending double as they absorb the momentum. Almost at the moment of touchdown, the back hatch releases and falls hard into the turf creating a ramp. Well practiced at fast entries, a team of Imperial troopers surge down the ramp with their weapons up and searching. The same occurs for the second shuttle that landed ten meters away, and neither finds themselves facing resistance of any kind. Satisfied against a surprise for the moment, the Pureblooded Sith in charge of this landing steps out of the first shuttle, two Sith Shock troops, Force users capable of battle but not skilled to the point of being lifted to the ranks of true Sith, flanking her on each side.

The red fleshed young woman in the padded clothes of purple and black strides the field for a few moments, her long legs kicking the length of her skirt enough to make it look like a living being. After completing her search with the Force, the woman concludes that there should not be any living sentients in the area aside from her own forces, but one must never be lax on the battlefield, and she gives her orders.

"Spread out and execute any living being you find. Your priority is to take any food, medicine, fuel, or droids present to support our marching armies. Destroy the rest. Move!"

The sixty odd troopers and the half a dozen Shock troops jump to action, ten or so staying behind to keep the shuttles secure, and several of those habitually keeping an eye on their master, Lord Sabra. Some out of worry for their personal safety, but at least one entranced by her form and her features. The red swollen lumps on the face and the almost blade like protruding slices of flesh below the jaw that most species in the universe would find disturbing tend to form the basis of true beauty in the Sith Empire, and leaves Lord Sabra with a cadre of admirers. None that would dare approach her though, as only madmen would try and approach a living deity.

The troopers only have a minute to admire their better, as there is a hail of blaster fire inside the large canopied building, a hanger of some kind, and the shouts of troopers inside. Several troopers can be seen back peddling with all their might while firing, one managing to shout something about an ambush from crates, before being cut down by green blaster fire. Afterwards, at least two dozen forms emerge from the mouth of the building, a squad of combat droids that had been activated before the Republic troopers had fled the post. With a few beeps, the de facto leader of the synthetic squad says in it's hollow voice, "More enemy units found. Proceeding to eliminate."

The robotic warriors lift their rifles and open fire as Lord Sabra shouts, "Rally and destroy!"

Sabra ignites her lightsaber, the blade burning purple like her robes, and deflects a series of bolts, one returning to disable a droid. The sparse amount of troopers still at the landing zone immediately move to form a human shield in front of their Lord, knowing that their purpose is to die in her place until the rest of the landing force can arrive to protect their master.

# # # # #

"The droids in the camp have had their proximity detectors tripped. Should be chaos there for a while," cackles Tomas' voice over the radio.

"Good," responds Lt. Zic over the airwaves. "Yellow Squad, strike 'em hard."

From the tallest trees as far into the forest as possible and still having line of sight, the troopers of Yellow Squad in full climbing rigs and secured above the canopy fire on their targets. Two sets of three armor piercing shoulder mounted rockets scream from the treetops and strike the two unaware heavy transport shuttles. One of them explodes from the blasts almost immediately, the momentary delay showing the vehicle's form bend unnaturally from the impacts. The second one just barely survives the assault, and immediately takes to the air to try and escape, leaving the troopers on the ground behind. The shuttle makes it maybe fifty meters on its one good engine before two rockets from the swiftly reloading Yellow Squad specialists catch up and blow the craft to pieces in the sky.

Most of the Imperial troopers on the ground were far enough from the first explosion to get by with only mild discomfort from the shockwave, as they had been heading into the trees from the beginning. But all of their attention was caught by the annihilation of the shuttles, leaving them with their backs turned. Dillon doesn't let this chance go by as he shouts through the radio, "Red Squad go!"

In a moment all twenty seven of the men and women under Dillon's direct command step out of hiding and begin firing on the Imperials and their six Sith taskmasters, all but one of them being the anonymous sort the troopers of the 1081st have taken to calling "Sithlings" for the expendable nature they are deployed when compared to true Sith. The one without the helmet is obviously in charge of this detachment, a red skinned Zabrak that appears to be naturally bald and clothed in heavy black armor with a similar cape trailing down his back.

The initial volley of bolts only strikes down a few Imperials, considering the long range at which they were fired, but that was never the point. The entire idea was to make the Imperials angry and show them that Dillon has a smaller number of troopers compared to the Imperials. The entire point is to get the Imperials to charge.

Shouting, shooting at random into the forest near where the Republic trooper fire is coming from, and running at full speed, the Imperials dash into the treeline to close the gap and find cover while moving forward. Just after reaching the shade of the trees, Tomas' calming baritone leisurely says over the radio, "Fire in the hole."

In a deep bass chorus, the remote triggered field of explosives detonate with the leading Sithlings and front wave of Imperial troopers dead in the center of the blast field. Somehow the Zabrak Sith had noticed something ahead of time and leapt clear at a height of half a dozen meters, but all the others were struck full blast. The Imperials are still charging as the detonated sod falls and lines of sight become clearer showing the approximate death toll, almost a dozen troopers and four of the five Sithlings on the ground, the fifth picking himself up. He was just about to force himself up from one knee when a yellow tinted blaster bolt strikes him square in the face, knocking his body back like a puppet. A definite fatality considering the stopping power of Lyra's personally modified rifle.

Almost like that one shot was the cue, the rest of Blue Squad, the company's marksmen, begin firing from their carefully chosen positions to make the previous accuracy of Red Company look like a group of kids with pop-guns. Imperials are getting cut down left and right, their body armor exploding in smoldering sparks. Dillon smiles as he continues to fire uninterrupted at the advancing Imperials. It's nice to be on the giving end once in a while.

The Imperials are quickly being pinned down, the individual troopers finding cover that they don't want to move from. An excellent bit of luck, as the entire group will be little more than target practice once the planned flanking operation goes into action. Two squads of Imperials will be wiped out in the matter of minutes with little wear and tear on the company. Not bad for a day's work.

The sounds of the battle are suddenly altered with a cascade of sharp, high pitched cracks, and dense smoke obscures the field, spreading wide and thick. The Imperials had smoke grenades. Dillon wastes no time ordering his troopers to fall back. The Imperials are doubtlessly advancing, and Dillon doesn't want to risk any close combat with that Sith leading them.

Back peddling up the gentle slope, the troopers of Red Squad are reduced to firing blindly into the smoke screen, all visibility lost and with no clue where to aim since the Imperials are not giving a suggested location by checking their fire. Just as vague movements might be able to be made out, another salvo of smoke grenades explode covering the field once again, this time reaching almost to the position that Red Squad had been holding at the start of the battle. Like a swarm, the black and grey armored troopers rip out of the cloud, wafts of the smoke sticking to their bodies as they emerge firing. The initial breach only numbers a few, many being blasted quickly, but moments after the initial breach, the rest of the Imperial troopers appear en mass, all guns blazing.

Getting Red Squad the extra distance prevented their being overrun, but they had to leave their cover and the blaster fire quickly becomes intense. Dillon sees Corporal Renten fall from a blaster bolt out of the corner of his eye, even as he drops an Imperial himself. Sweeping the field for a prime shot, Dillon sees a figure explode out of the upper billows of the screen, his entire form black as if it were an incarnation of living smoke. A trooper right in its path of travel raises her blaster to fire, but a moment too late as the red lightsaber blade bisects the rifle and her breastplate in one sweep, the deadly cut still glowing after the fact.

Many blasters change their target immediately, looking to take out the sneering Zabrak Sith as quickly as possible, but the man just starts running towards his next target while lightly swinging his lightsaber. Bolt after bolt is deflected, and any that penetrate the defensive swings of the lightsaber do little more than graze his heavy body armor. Even Lyra's precise shot at the head is deflected into a nearby Republic trooper, striking him square in the chest.

Dillon has never really liked thinking things through, preferring gut reaction whenever possible. And right now Dillon follows his gut feeling, breaking into a dash, charging the Zabrak Sith that is charging one of his own Red Squad troopers, and calls out over the radio, "Leave the Sith to me, take out those troopers!"

Lyra tries to protest, saying she can get a shot, but Lt. Zic cuts her off saying, "I'm making it an order. The battle will end faster if we finish the Imperials and then concentrate on the Sith. Make the troopers priority targets!"

Dillon doesn't hear any of the radio chatter, his heart pounding in his ears and the rest of the battle fading into sounds completely unrelated to him. Even the glancing blow from an Imperial rifle on his leg doesn't cause Dillon to give more than a twitch of his muscles as the distance to the Sith closes. Dillon can't aim a weapon as he's pumping his limbs so hard for the sake of speed, which may be why the Sith's perception through the Force doesn't recognize Dillon as a danger until he is body checked by Dillon's shoulder, the Zabrak's arm lifted to slice through the trooper in front of him. As Dillon goes flying by, his momentum overcoming his balance, Dillon faintly feels a bit of relief to see that the trooper hasn't been cut in half. By the time Dillon and the Sith are rolling on the ground, the moment has passed and all Dillon can think about is getting his rifle pointed in time to kill his opponent.

Stopping his forward roll with a knee, Dillon twists his body to bring his rifle to bear on the Sith, who is also on one knee just outside the range of being able to swing his lightsaber and holding it in the right hand, the one facing away from Dillon. The moment of grim satisfaction is killed as the red and black faced Zabrak gracefully dips his head forward letting the lethal barrage pass overhead, skimming the shoulders, and the simultaneously extended left hand emits a ripple that distorts the light around it and strikes Dillon in the chest like a battering ram.

Dillon feels the moment of weightlessness followed by the impact of the old growth tree against his back. His vision spotty, Dillon is only intuitively aware of being flung several meters as his training and instinct scream at him to get moving. The hand that had unconsciously moved towards the hurting chest is put into action, and Dillon pushes himself off and rolls away from the tree as the lightsaber of the leaping Sith cuts through a frightening amount of the plant's circumference. The Zabrak turns to look at Dillon in satisfaction, knowing that the trooper can't get his feet back under him before the finishing blow is dealt.

The Sith doesn't see Dillon's look of satisfaction through the helmet as the timed explosive charge that Dillon had slapped onto the trunk of the tree while simultaneously pushing off against it beeps rapidly before detonation. The blast rips a frightening amount of the tree's trunk apart, sending needle sharp splinters of wood flying, some the length and breadth of a forearm. The blast strikes the Sith unaware, tearing the cape to tatters, leaving a deep bleeding slash across the face, and knocking the Zabrak off balance. It takes Dillon about the same amount of time as the Sith to get his bearing back, though Dillon had gotten enough distance to begin safely shooting at the Sith again. Flicking on the full auto setting, Dillon opens fire.

The Zabrak moves like a track runner, pushing off from a crouched position and moving a circular path around Dillon to affect the accuracy of the bolts as much as possible, swiftly deflecting as many as he can. Passing by a covering tree, the horn headed Zabrak does a pirouetting leap, throwing his lightsaber at Dillon in a glowing arc. More by intuition than reason, Dillon knows that if he doesn't get out of the way he'll be scythed in half, and the best way is down. Throwing himself backwards, Dillon sees the lightsaber swing right over his head as his back strikes the soft forest floor and uses his momentum to perform a backroll, putting force into his shoulders to speed the movement.

Coming back up and over from the roll, Dillon brings his rifle up to bear down on the charging Zabrak, only a few steps away thanks to the momentary window of opportunity. Opening fire, Dillon sees two bolts miss completely, one striking a shoulder guard, and another absorbed by the Sith's outstretched left palm dealing no damage before the Zabrak catches his lightsaber in his hand again and is deflecting blaster shots once more with ease. The Zabrak is going in for the kill, but Dillon has seen his killing stroke wind up three times before, used twice against troopers and once against the tree. Trusting blind bravado, Dillon counter charges the Sith to throw off his timing and create a window for himself.

Stepping in, Dillon forces the Zabrak to swing early, throwing off his tempo, and Dillon once more collapses himself downward. Folding the left leg and bracing his right, Dillon slips his head and body towards his left, the Sith's right handed diagonal swing skimming over Dillon's shoulder after having dropped his height to less than half that while standing. Putting strength into the same muscles he uses for his quick uppercut, Dillon lifts up from the ground like a rocket to strike the Sith in the gut with the stock of his rifle instead of a bare fist, causing the Sith to double over while the missed swing has him off balance. Taking advantage of the opening, Dillon grabs his combat knife in his left hand in a stabbing grip and swings at the unprotected neck.

Dillon loses his grip on the combat knife, which flies from his hand harmlessly, as the pommel of the Zabrak's lightsaber strikes Dillon in the side of the head from a backhanded swing, leaving a circle of gouges in the armored helmet from the series of decorative spikes. The Sith made the one move he could from such a disadvantageous position, and it has sent Dillon reeling back a step, far enough for the now grinning Sith to perform an overhead swing to finish Dillon off.

While it's a powerful attack, it's also predictable. Pushing forward once again with a planted foot, Dillon has his left arm up and intercepts the swing, forearm striking forearm. The instant the attack is halted, Dillon turns his hand a hundred and eighty degrees, grabs the Sith's forearm with it, and twists to force the blade of the lightsaber out and away from himself, just like in basic training's hand-to-hand combat. The Sith has to step in closer to avoid having his arm broken, throwing him off balance as well, leaving Dillon an opening to bring his rifle up and open fire at point blank range.

Unbelievably, the shots go wide as the Zabrak decides that instead of trying to break free and get back to middle ranged melee combat, he pulls in closer to Dillon, chest to chest, leaving the barrel of the rifle poking out past the Sith's armpit. Securing his clinch, the Zabrak gives Dillon a savage head butt, the horn on his forehead leaving a dent in Dillon's helmet. Dillon momentarily staggers from the impact, his knees bending, before throwing his strength into righting himself with enough force to head butt the Zabrak right back.

After dealing with the recoil, the Zabrak audibly says, "Oooh," as if Dillon had just said something, and then head butts Dillon once more, which Dillon then returns in what has suddenly become a testosterone contest. Around the fifth repetition of this cycle, a passing Imperial trooper pauses to do a double take. He is quickly rewarded with a yellow bolt to the head for his stunned inquisitiveness. Around the twelfth repetition, Dillon's helmet twisted and his forehead bleeding from the misshapen metal and the Zabrak bloody from a broken nose and a cut eyebrow, the two men hear a twisting creak and sharp cracks much different from any previously heard in the battle. Both men turn their heads to look in unison.

The old growth tree that had suffered the devastating combination of being hacked by a lightsaber and detonated by explosives seems to be the source of the noise, judging by the fact that it is now leaning unnaturally. Further and further the towering tree bends, the fibers of the trunk twisting, snapping, and breaking, right at Dillon and the Zabrak, who are currently immobilized by clinching one another.

Turning their heads in unison once more, the two men look each other in the eye, possible to do now that the lens in Dillon's helmet is shattered. Seeing the knowledge of what is coming in each other's eye, they move to release each other in order to get out of the way of the falling tree. At least, the Zabrak does. Dillon on the other hand grabs the Sith harder as he tries to escape and leverages his back to pull the Zabrak closer in, into the path of the now quickly falling tree. The symphony of cracking and snapping is punctuated by the crescendo of the tree crashing into the earth, tons of wood dropping with enough velocity to crush an armored vehicle.

After the felled tree comes to a rest, Dillon finds he's aching across his entire body. The shock of the impact almost knocked him unconscious, it being heavier and harder than the kinetic blow the Sith had used on him, and perhaps Dillon had indeed blacked out as he finds he has to open his eyes. What greets him is the sight of the Zabrak Sith, laying right on top of him. Dillon reflexively moves his right hand to try and punch the man in the face, attack being the best form of defense, but his arm doesn't move. This prompts Dillon to look around quickly, showing why both men are in such an unlikely position. Dillon and the Sith had both narrowly avoided being crushed by the trunk of the great tree, but had been struck by, and pinned under, a large bough. Who knows how much debris the two of them are stuck under, but the only certainty is that they are stuck. After some quick wriggling, Dillon finds that only his left hand is not completely snared at the moment. But the wriggling grabs the attention of the Sith, who had also been seeing what he could still move. Dillon and the Sith lock eyes once again, and the Zabrak immediately grabs Dillon by the throat with his free left hand, the leatheris glove creaking as the grip tightens. Dillon cocks an eyebrow and says with his own voice, the modulator broken by all the headbutting, "Hey, that tubing around my neck is armor, too. You won't accomplish anything that w-**aack!**"

Dillon suddenly feels a heavy compression around his throat, the airways stifled and the life being choked out of him. But Dillon can't feel the press of any armor around his neck. It's the Force! The Sith is trying to strangle him to death with the Force, and it's working! Dillon can see the satisfaction in the Sith's bloody, pummeled, slashed up face, gleeful at the prospect of this immediate victory despite his overall situation, and Dillon knows that if nothing changes, he's dead. Working furiously, Dillon frees his left hand, and punches the Sith repeatedly in the head and face, but in such an awkward position, Dillon can't bring anything more than the strength of his arm to bear.

The world is starting to flicker black and purple, and Dillon can tell he's moments away from passing out. Punches alone aren't doing anything, Dillon needs something harder! With his left hand, Dillon begins blindly groping the ground nearby looking for anything. His rifle, the dropped knife, a rock, anything! Dillon's hand comes across something long, hard, and round. It has to be the Sith's lightsaber, and Dillon recalls well just how hard an impact he suffered from the spikes on the pommel of the weapon. Acting on desperation, Dillon slams the weapon home.

The impact feels different than how Dillon had thought it would feel, but the pressure on Dillon's neck suddenly seems to lessen and disappear. Breathing free again, Dillon's eye sight washes bright with colors for a moment before real vision fades into existence.

Dillon's first sight is the face of the Zabrak Sith glaring him in the eyes, filled with ecstatic hate.

Not really prepared for that, Dillon tenses and tries going for another strike with the lightsaber's pommel, pulling the hilt to swing again. For some reason, Dillon can't bring the lightsaber back, but in Dillon's exertions, he does notice the Sith's head wobble unnaturally and in the same pattern as his own attempted movements.

Huh.

Taking a closer look at his left hand, Dillon finally sees what he's holding. It's one of the razor sharp splinters of hardwood that had been blasted out of the tree earlier, and a long stretch of it is stuck inside the Zabrak's head. The Sith appears to have died instantly from being stabbed in the brain, and now Dillon's grip on the splinter is the only thing keeping the head from flopping down into Dillon's face. Dillon then has to force his mind to stop trying to think of a joke having to do with dead weight, luggage, and the splinter taking the place of a handle as he tries listening for the sounds of the battle. Not for the lack of taste the comment would have, but because it feels awkward coming up with a joke while the corpse is staring at him. Besides, Dillon doesn't have much skill when it comes to wit, so instead he puts his attention to the sound of the combat around him.

After a few moments the innumerable blaster shots begin to give Dillon an idea of the battle as it stands. The difference in tone between Imperial and Republic blasters and the number of shots fired and from how far away. The punctuations of the heavy rifles belonging to Blue Squad fired in the distance and the tramping sounds of troopers moving. Soon Dillon hears more movement, branches and plants crushed and trampled upon from a new direction, and the sound of rapid fire heavy weapons makes Dillon smile. That would be Kil and his squad moving on the Imperial's flank. With this, the Imperials should be herded to the next ambush point where the rest of Blue Squad will be waiting to put any stragglers down. And then the sound of an explosion mutes the battle as one of the rigged transports is remotely detonated by Tomas. It's all over but for the shouting. A complete rout.

# # # # #

The crackling of the lightning fired from Lord Sabra's left hand fades as the last droid falls inert onto the ground. It had been a difficult situation, the droids striking while the landing forces were dispersed, and one group of returning troopers led by a Sith Shock troop had to sacrifice themselves to take pressure off Darth Sabra, the Force user and all perishing for their patriotism, but Sabra had won with little damage to herself aside from a single scorch on her robes. An executable offense except for the fact that those who had performed the act were not alive in the first place. Well, prisoners of war are acceptable substitutes.

Running a hand through her shoulder length dull red hair, an act that makes a few of her admirers amongst the reassembled troops swallow hard to stifle their imaginations, Darth Sabra proceeds to get matters back on track.

"Well, now that that little bit of trickery is out of the way, we can get back to our original task. As before, gather all vital supplies and destroy the rest."

With a universal salute, the troopers and the Sith Shock troops move out, spreading through the camp to finish their search or to return to the caches of goods they had had to leave behind before. One of the troopers, Private Searn, looks over his shoulder wistfully as he enters the armory with the rest of his detachment. "Gorgeous. And so dignified. What I wouldn't do to earn her favor…"

"If you don't get your head out of the clouds, you'll earn her _dis_favor," quips Private Dahl, Searn's old friend, much to his chagrin. "Now help me haul this crate of grenades."

"Don't you have a sense for beauty, Dahl?"

"Nope," says the man immediately, "I was born with a sense for self-preservation instead. Now grab the other end of this."

Searn takes up half the burden, but can't fight the urge to tilt his head back, dreams of what could be filling his mind. He then tilts his head sideways while holding the handle of the heavy crate of explosives and asks, "Hey, Dahl, what's that on the ceiling?"

Looking up, Dahl sees a large flat disk solidly attached to the roof of the armory. Panic in his voice, Dahl says, "By the Sith. That's a Repub-"

Dahl's voice is annihilated by the initial explosion, setting off the chain reaction in the munitions, all of which accompany the detonation of all the mines hidden in each building throughout the camp. The entirety of the grounds becoming one giant firestorm.

# # # # #

From the sound of things, Tomas has just detonated the explosives Green Squad had laid out in the camp. That should teach the Imperials to try and pinch Republic supplies. But Dillon can't take part in any kind of celebration for a job well done, yet. Dillon has had to wait patiently under the weight of the tree, wedged firmly and securely under his dead Sith. His earlier attempts to contact someone over his radio yielded nothing but static, his comm. unit undoubtedly broken in the head butting competition. But Dillon is sure he'll be found soon. Delta Company has breathing room and they're sure to do a battlefield sweep for survivors, so Dillon just has to stay frosty until then.

But still, it's pretty creepy having the dead Sith stare at him, all scowls and whatnot.

Staring back, Dillon finally says what's been on his mind all this time. "You know, this is exactly why troopers wear helmets. I don't get why you Sith and Jedi are always running around battlefields without them."

With that said, Dillon goes ahead and enjoys the silence for a bit, before the desire to tell off the Sith grows again. "And another thing, what's with that over the top rage you guys have. I mean, fighting can be pretty fun, yeah, but you guys take it over the top. Is it something they feed you in the Empire? Are you guys all stimmed out all the time?"

At about the time Dillon finds himself feeling the urge to bob the dead Zabrak's head around and speak for it like a ventriloquism act, a reply concerning "compensating for something" forming in his mind, Dillon hears some people calling out.

"Sergeant!"

"Sergeant Major! Are you there?"

"Dillon! Can you hear us?"

"Sarge!"

"I'm in here! And I won!"

There is a pause in the calling and in the sound of movement, followed by one of the searching voices asking, "He won?" The sound of combat knives hacking through foliage redoubles with excitement, Dillon catching the sound of someone saying, "I knew he'd pull it off!" With a heave, a crack, snap, and a sudden influx of light, one of the more heavily leafed branches is pulled aside and Dillon sees the lumbering form of Davies, his helmet off and showcasing the truncated nose in the center of his weather beaten face, the man having been a blue seas fisher before his enlistment. Davies calls out his find in that slurring deep voice of his saying he'd found the Sarge!

Private Ruse Danobe hops into view, ducking under the branch that Davies is thrashing out of the way and says, "I knew you'd win, Sergeant! How'd you do- oh."

The sight of the mangled helmet, the impaled Zabrak head, and the slowly spreading blood stains knocks the exuberance right out of the kid, causing his cheerful pink face to twist into unnatural seriousness for his soft features. As Davies finally wrenches the tree branch clear, a third trooper steps into the space and says, "Don't just stand there, Private. Get the Sergeant free. Sir, are you injured?"

As the trooper kneels down to remove Dillon's helmet and inspect his injuries, Dillon responds by saying, "I should be asking you that, Corporal. I saw you get blasted."

As his helmet is removed, opening his field of vision wider, Dillon looks Carla Renten over. The young woman has pure black hair tied in a single thick braid that is currently hanging over her shoulder, dark eyes, and dusky skin, but her shade is a few tones paler right now with sweat beading on her face. She says she only took a glancing blow, which the carbon scoring pattern on her abdomen shows, but it's pretty obvious the bolt has burned through the armor and some measure of flesh, so she shouldn't be exerting herself. Upon bluntly telling Renten that, Dillon hears another voice from beyond the hollowed out region of foliage answer him. "She's already been checked out by a field medic, Dillon. Just let your troopers help _you_ for a change."

Tilting his head up, Dillon is just barely able to see the face of Lyra Burnett, Sergeant of Blue Squad and her shoulder length scarlet red hair. She's removed her helmet for the time being, and the deep coloration of her wavy locks are catching and reflecting the sparse light that is breaching the forest canopy. Slung over one shoulder she has her leg length personally customized blaster rifle, completely ruining any majesty the image may have contained, even without the help of the full body trooper armor. "Lyra?" asks Dillon, "What are you doing here while there's still fighting go- agh!"

Dillon cuts himself off more from surprise than anything, as Corporal Renten suddenly begins cleaning off Dillon's forehead and applies some kolto salve to the lacerations caused by the crushed helmet. Answering Dillon's unfinished question, Lyra coolly says that Kil is in charge of cleaning up the Imperials, and that she volunteered to sweep the field for injured troopers. Having said what she wanted, Lyra turns and leaves the area as Davies and Danobe come to the audible conclusion that there is no way to move the thick branch directly connected to the tree trunk that is pinning Dillon and the Sith corpse down. They came to the conclusion only after the forth attempt at lifting it off of their commanding officer.

Cutting off the discussion on how long it will take to cut through the branch with combat knives as it was beginning to veer towards the use of explosives, Dillon says, "The Sith should have dropped his lightsaber somewhere near here, try and find it before you resort to using grenades!"

Renten has enough time to finish the kolto application and bandaging on Dillon's head as the other troopers fumble around looking for the dropped lightsaber, and longer. During the wait, Renten also has the time to take over the duty of holding up the Sith's head off of Dillon's face so he can rest his arm, saying, "So you killed the Zabrak by putting another spike in his head. Kind of appropriate." As Davies expels his low chuckle, Dillon nearly kicks himself. Why hadn't he thought of that joke when he was putting together his ventriloquism act?

Danobe is the one that eventually finds the lightsaber and wastes no time in turning it on to see if it still works, nearly impaling Renten in the tight confines of the cut out hollow of the felled tree. Renten actually had to fall backward, letting go of the Sith's head to avoid a fatal wound, the head dropping right into Dillon's chin with a dull thud and a sharp expletive. Dillon quickly corrects Danobe's actions, not without a little venom in his words, and directs the youth into using the lightsaber correctly.

"Remember, never point the end of that lightsaber at anything you don't want dead, just like a blaster. Leave it off and get over to the base of the branch- my hand! You're stepping on it! No, I'm fine, just get into position. Now press and hold the button that should be on the side. Alright, now just press the blade into the wood using constant gentle pressure, letting the lightsaber do the cutting for you. As soon as you see the tree starting to shift, let go of the button and-watch it!"

As the last uncut fibers of the branch twist and snap, the tree's trunk resettles, narrowly avoiding Danobe's foot. Dillon immediately feels the pressure on his chest slacken and can finally take full deep breaths again. Standing with a stretch, Dillon says, "Thank you for the help. I'm going to go check in with Lt. Zic, so let me know if you find my rifle."

"Sir, wait."

Despite himself, Dillon stops as if commanded, an odd and slightly desperate tone in Danobe's voice. Dillon turns and sees the young trooper holding out the Sith's lightsaber as he softly says, "This is yours."

All three of the troopers look at Dillon with somber expectation, completely different from their candid happiness before. Dillon feels the change in the atmosphere as well, causing him to seriously study the lightsaber in Danobe's outstretched hand. The grip is designed with a simple twisting pattern, with the shroud around the emitter, the part the blade comes out of, cut at a decorative forty five degree slant. And the pommel has a ring of curved spikes reaching out like the tips of a bladed crown, eight of these wicked pointed prongs in all. It's simple, streamlined, and predatory. An excellent trophy.

"Yes. It is," says Dillon matter of factly.

As Dillon takes hold of the lightsaber, it seems the faces of his troopers soften with satisfaction. Dillon turns on his heel and leaves unceremoniously to find Lt. Zic, but as he goes, Dillon hears the troopers talking. Danobe's admiring voice answered by Davies' deep rumble.

"A tree fell on him while he was fighting a Sith, and he walks away with a few scratches."

"That's a _real_ man right there."

Dillon quickly strides through the battered forest, exchanging a smile and a nod with Lyra, and then later with Tomas as Dillon reaches the crest of a wooded hill aspiring to be a small mountain, the spot Lt. Zic chose for him to have the best view of the battlefield beforehand. Off a little ways by himself is one of the three corporals of Red Squad, Corporal Neel Anzela, a kind hearted but disciplined Alderaan trooper, is sitting on a rock with his head cupped in his hands.

Approaching Lt. Zic, Dillon salutes and speaks in the required loud and impersonal tone of an underling. "Sergeant Major Gauss, reporting, Sir."

Lt. Zic turns from the sitting corporal, his long blond hair catching the light as if sunshine had been invented only for him and a smile of genuine kindness on his handsome face that could melt any heart. Dillon masters the momentary urge to punch Lt. Zic in the face as his commanding officer welcomes him. "I'm really glad to see you alive, Gauss. Not too badly thrashed about? Good, good. I'd thought you'd bit off more than you can chew this time, but taking out a Sith in a brawl, my that will be good for morale. …We're going to need it."

This momentary air of depression is completely unnatural around Lt. Zic, causing Dillon to ask, "Sir?"

"Nevermind, nevermind. You came here for a debrief? Giving or receiving information?"

Dillon nods at Corporal Anzela, the second in command of Red Squad under Dillon. "I'm assuming you have already been given more information than I can provide, so I'm here to ask how we stand. How the Crawlers made out, casualty count, and our next objective. I assume we're still planning to head for the forest's edge near the city of Mylaa as we'd planned earlier?"

That momentary discordance in Lt. Zic's attitude returns, and is as quickly replaced with his upbeat nature again. Is he forcing himself? And what's that sound Dillon can hear in the background? "No Gauss, we won't be heading to Mylaa, or anywhere near a settlement. We're going to be making our base camps in the deep woods and striking from there."

This is a rather great divergence from what Dillon and Lt. Zic had discussed beforehand. The idea of heading to Mylaa was to make contact with civilians and try to get an underground network going, possibly even an organized resistance and provide partisan groups with weaponry. Spread the fight as much as possible. "Why the change in plans, Sir?"

"Well, step over here, Gauss," says Lt. Zic as he leads Dillon around Corporal Anzela, "And look over that way. Do you see that?"

Dillon squints a little at the distance, and then pulls out his telescopic scope. With the scope pressed to his eye, Dillon works the zoom and focus until the distant indistinct blackness on the horizon comes into shape causing his heart to fall into his boots.

"That is all that is left of Mylaa, Gauss. It seems the city was bombarded from orbit. As much as I'd like to search for survivors, with the Sith as they are we'd just be tempting another bombardment. That is why we're going to stay away from all civilian targets."

Dillon had been on worlds that were in the middle of being conquered, often being among the last to be evacuated before the defenses fell. He'd seen occupation, the subversion of governments and the freedoms of the people on those worlds. The ruthless and brutal efficiency of the Imperial conquerors. But that was not this. This is genocide, pure and simple. And all at once Dillon understands what is happening today. The Sith Empire has not come to conquer Alderaan, they have come to defile it. And in that moment of shock, despair, and burning hatred, Dillon finally recognizes the almost inaudible sound at the corner of his hearing.

It is the sobbing of Corporal Anzela, mourning the death of his world.

# # # # #

The atmosphere in the bridge of the Imperial warship Dissonance is dark and foreboding, but it is not caused by the dim lighting designed to draw as little power from the ship's military systems as possible. The heavy atmosphere comes from the presence of Lord Venos, a powerful and honored Sith standing patiently at the center of the command floor. The red highlights of the various consoles seem to tint the entire area with the man's foul mood.

Lord Venos had once been well known for his wild flights of passion and love of violence, the common Imperial servicemen are good at keeping track of such Sith, but in recent years since his return to duty the Lord had become more even tempered, though no less dangerous. It is well known aboard the warship permanently placed under his purview that Lord Venos detests being made subordinate to Lord Malgus' plan, and that the Sith's temper is on edge today. What's more, there seems to be something else bothering Lord Venos as he keeps making that horrible grimace that only a man without a lower lip can make for no apparent reason. It is no wonder that Captain Rache takes a long steeling breath before approaching the tall Sith Lord in his heavy black armor with the hooded cloak.

"Lord Venos, we have confirmed the complete loss of contact with every man in Lord Malagh's detachment. From Lord Sabra's report of the traps laid in the Republic camp, it is likely Lord Malagh's detachment has been wiped out."

Captain Rache pauses, but the pause becomes a silence as he waits for permission to speak again. Finally, Lord Venos speaks, his esses hissing slightly through the permanently exposed lower teeth. "And what are your thoughts on the matter, Captain?"

Captain Rache inhales deeply, trying to compose his next line in the most unassuming manner he can while giving sound military advice. Licking his lips despite himself, the pencil thin black mustache tickling slightly, the commissioned officer speaks with a discipline that masks his fear of being made an example of. "We have the coordinates where Lord Malagh landed. We could easily blanket the area with fire from our current station here in orbit. It would certainly eliminate whatever force defeated him."

Lord Venos smiles, the natural pearl of his teeth looking yellowed against the pale white flesh of his face. "You forget, Captain, that we only presume Malagh to be dead. He may simply be injured or beyond communicating with us, marooned on the planet below. Would you really be willing to assume the responsibility of murdering a Lord of the Sith?"

Captain Rache feels the edge in the words as keenly as a knife. It is common knowledge that Lord Venos had been away from active service not for personal matters, but because he had been stranded on a barren world for years, lost in the shuffle of battle. It's the reason the Lord no longer has earlobes, having lost them to frostbite, though the lower lip had been burnt off by an explosion, searing away the flesh from the mouth to the chin and leaving the living bone visible. And Rache feels his life in danger from the question concerning his comfort in killing a Sith, his rightful masters. Deprecatingly, Captain Rache says, "No, my Lord, I would never presume to undertake such a task under my own judgment."

Lord Venos' one lipped smile is as unnerving as his grimaces, though in this case it is made in satisfaction. "Do not worry _too_ much, Captain. I know you are a loyal subject to our great Empire. As for orders, you are to do nothing."

"Sir?"

"Our current orders from… Malgus are to stand by and destroy any ships trying to leave the planet, to keep the world bottled up. Whatever happens on the ground is Malgus' concern. I for one would not like to risk a ship sneaking past us while we are busy bombarding the surface. Now, I will be leaving the bridge in your care, Captain Rache. Contact me should any new matter arise."

Captain Rache snaps a salute as he properly acknowledges the order, warily blissful of the Sith Lord's departure, and that of the slight slip of a girl that is the Lord's apprentice as she follows after Venos' billowing cloak. The entire bridge breaths in relief as the doors of the turbolift close. Lord Venos on the other hand is still on edge.

"You have questions for me, Fyurai?"

Lord Venos did not move a centimeter from his position of pointing himself towards the lift's doors. He simply felt his apprentice's unease.

"Yes, Master," says the girl without any hint of intimidation. "Why did you feign deference to Lord Malgus' orders? As far as I understand, you-"

"Do not presume to understand me, or my motives, Fyurai."

"Yes, Master. I am sorry. I should never have questioned you."

"No, Fyurai, you _must_ question me, otherwise you will never learn. You wonder what I gain by carrying through with my orders to the letter, when it is most assuredly to our advantage to eliminate Alderaan's defenders. You wonder at my adherence to the orders of one such as Malgus when I serve him only through a direct order from the Council."

"…Yes, Master."

"Simple. Alderaan has fallen, and Malgus need simply strut around and play with his plundered toys. He has achieved his objective, but at what cost? Even if a warlord wins a battle, if he loses enough of his military it is the same as defeat. For such a warlord only ruin and dishonor await. Whoever was in charge of those Republic soldiers is a man capable of swiftly eliminating a large number of Sith led troops in a matter of minutes. While it is true that letting them run around unhindered will lead to trouble, the ones who will experience it is Malgus and the forces under his direct control."

"I see," says Fyurai, who dips her head forward in thought, allowing the stray platinum blond hairs not secured in her black steel clasp to fall in front of her eyes.

"_Now_ you do. In the future, you must understand without explanations, or you will not survive as a Sith."

"Yes master," replies the girl that can't be more than fourteen years old. "But what about Darth Malagh?"

"What about him?"

"Do you-"

Fyurai silences herself as the turbolift doors open and Lord Venos steps off. Fyurai is not to question her master in public. There are few people in the wide hallway, but all of them stop and salute the two passing Sith as if they were in a regimental review. As the two reach the quarters that had been created for them, the two Imperial marines guarding the doorway stomp, salute, and maintain their stance as their masters pass through the door. In private once again, Fyurai finishes her question.

"You spoke of Darth Malagh before. Do you really think he is alive?"

"There is no chance of it," rumbles Venos as he sits in a chair, grimacing once more.

"Then… do you feel no need to avenge his death? To make his killers suffer?"

"I feel no sympathy for those who volunteer for a meaningless chase, just so they can experience the momentary satisfaction of violence. Malagh and Sabra are both fools, and Malgus is little better."

Stunned, Fyurai asks why.

"What is the most important rule for a successful invasion?"

Not expecting the quiz, Fyurai stumbles over her answer. "To… attack quickly and without warning? To destroy any resistance thoroughly?"

"Those are general rules that should be followed in any battle. For an invasion to be successful you must capture the resources held by your enemy and put them to use sustaining your own army. Be it weapons, food, fuel, or materials, by taking it for yourself you grow stronger while the enemy weakens. It is the most fundamental rule of sustaining any conquest of any length when you have no reliable supply lines, like we lack here in the heart of Republic space."

Fyurai now gathers that her Master believes that Malgus has completely overextended his reach, and that that may be the main reason her Master chafes under his role of support. Venos continues on without allowing his apprentice to speak however.

"But conversely, any officer that is familiar with that rule can inflict an enormous number of casualties by intentionally destroying the contested resources along with those trying to capture them. Sabra is proof of that. Following that rule, your attacks become predictable and are easily countered."

"But wouldn't destroying the resources deprive the Republic of their use as well? They would just be making themselves weaker on purpose."

Venos chuckles as he reaches out with the Force to pour a glass of cold water from a pitcher. "If you are going to lose the resources anyway, why not destroy them? Especially if you are pushed to desperation. Yes, the instant the scouting fighter reported that the target camp was being evacuated, I knew what to expect."

"Then why did you not stop Lords Malagh and Sabra?"

"I told them that a few bombers would be sufficient, but those two chose to engage the Republic's forces on the ground. So I said no more and let them continue with their folly. They were not my underlings, and never were, so what do their fates matter to me?"

The two ill fated Sith had interpreted Malgus' orders to mean thoroughly seeking out opposition and destroying them entirely. And Sabra had thought to take whatever goods remained in the Republic camp as spoils to support the marches of the ground forces and gain favor for her own advancement. To have it all blow up in her face like that is a wonderful joke. Quite literally in her face. Lord Venos chuckles once more despite his foul mood.

"I see," says the apprentice, bowing her head forward again in thought before asking, "But why did you leave the bridge? You usually like to stay during the length of an operation. What happened?"

Venos is silent for a few long seconds, his grip tightening around the floating glass of water he had taken into his right hand. Then he slowly draws back the hood of his cloak with the left. As the hood falls back, a thick belt of leatheris can be seen wrapping around Venos' head as a blindfold, a trophy pulled from the Republic Special Forces trooper that had taken his right eye many years ago and bearing the insignia of his unit. But now it covers both eyes, wrapped horizontally around the head instead of the slant when Venos still had at least half his sight. "It is because my eye had begun to pain me enough that I may have executed someone out of sheer annoyance. I would prefer not to lose a capable officer who has not yet earned their death."

"The eye you lost on Hoth?"

Venos absently rubs the scarred cheek beneath the left eye he'd had vaporized by the nameless trooper on the ice planet, blasted in the face while knocked unconscious by a grenade. When Venos had awoken, he'd found himself totally blind, his ship destroyed, and himself stranded in an icy wasteland. He'd been barely able to keep himself alive those first days, let alone try and contact anyone for a rescue. Even after he'd learned to see through the Force, Venos had had no way of finding escape as he lived in the shelter the Republic cruiser he'd collapsed next to had provided. Living off melted snow, preserved rations, and whatever wild and often carnivorous beasts he slew on the planet's surface, Venos had become convinced he would spend his last days on that blasted planet. Until the illegal salvagers had shown up on his doorstep. That day, Venos had regained his freedom by escaping the planet, and obtained a new apprentice to replace the one he'd lost.

Thinking back to his foolish, rash, impulsive decision to charge those cornered Republic refugees makes Venos' eye ache once more. He knew he had brought the situation on himself through his own hubris, and he saw the trooper that had struck him down, the last sight he'd ever see with his own sight, as a messenger of the Force. The ordeal on Hoth had been painful, the loss of everything he'd built, but it had made him stronger and given him even more than he'd lost. Venos both loves and despises the trooper that had struck him down. As Venos dismisses his apprentice to practice her combat skills, Venos reclines in his chair and meditates over what he'd do to that trooper if he ever met him again for what may be the thousandth time.

# # # # #

Dillon can smell his own stink, and the odor of the tightly confined camp presses in around him. The surviving members of the 1081st's Delta company are in the middle of dinner, lined up to get a measure of portable soup from Corporal Lanchet, who has been keeping an eagle eye on supplies since the Crawlers were dumped, and her helpers, a rescued family of minor Alderaanian nobles. The troopers who already have their bowls are reluctantly eating, forcing it down in order to keep their strength up. Those who have finished eating and are not returning to duty head over to the knife throwing range. Being horribly low tech, it's just a round slice of tree trunk suspended for people to throw their combat knives at. Not as training, but as one of the few forms of leisure the company can afford at the moment and one of the few methods the troopers have of taking their minds off their current situation.

Over a quarter of Delta are dead, and many who remain are walking wounded who don't have the luxury of laying on their backs and enjoying medical attention. Duds died a couple of days ago, intentionally setting off a detonite sabotage charge to take out a Sithling that was trying to break through the flank, and his replacement is still choking on his promotion, even as he listens to Danobe's repeated story.

"…So Sergeant Gauss just headbutts the Sith right back! And before I know it, the two of them are butting heads over, and over again! I damn near peed myself laughing!"

Troopers in general get training in withstanding long term pressure situations such as being cut off behind enemy lines, but Danobe is doing a good job holding up under the constant pressure. Several other troopers are holding up equally well, some of them being former farmers as well. Dillon can only assume that the farming life of long hours of hard work, little rest, no vacations, and mind numbingly repetitive labor makes a good foundation for being a trooper. The first week of his own basic training aside, Dillon took to being a trooper like a Selkath to water. Dillon is still leery of being an officer though. Of being a role model and having to put out a constant aura of confidence to keep his troopers at ease.

As Dillon paces through the camp chewing on some jerky made from an unidentified woodland critter, Dillon starts looking over the small huddles of people, going over the dead and injured in his mind. Forcrest had never woken up from the injury he'd sustained on the first day of Alderaan's occupation. Blue Squad had lost Corporal Melanen and his team of four when a Sith appeared behind them, almost like he'd materialized out of thin air, during a raid on an Imperial supply dump. Corporal Zilas is sitting in a corner all by herself, her arm in a sling, sadly eyeing her speeder bike that had barely survived being horribly wrecked. She had planted a shaped charge on a fully loaded Imperial troop transport and evaded most of the Imperial's blaster fire. The bolt that had struck Zilas' speeder had sent it careening out of control, and but for the woman's skill in handling the craft she would have suffered injuries far worse than a broken arm. Unfortunately, the break is so severe that the field medic thinks the arm may have to come off in the next few days if nothing changes. Private Halvrett had recovered from his injury quickly, a severe dislocation and pinched nerves, but had stopped a bolt in the next fight he was involved in, returning to battle just in time to lose his life.

Red Squad's command structure has been suffering too, reflects Dillon as he catches Corporal Renten out of the corner of his eye, pale and sweating. The stomach wound on her had turned bad and developed an infection. She spent two days fighting off a fever until the field medic reluctantly allowed her to return to duty. Even now, Renten is fighting a light fever. While uninjured, Corporal Neel Anzela is no better. The constant sadness of seeing what the Sith have done to his homeworld is weighing on him like a stone whenever he's not in battle. Before the invasion, Anzela was the first to suggest amicably accommodating Imperial prisoners of war. Now he's the first in line to execute any Imperials that are captured.

Dillon sighs, and the stink of his own body fills his nose once again. Delta has had to be on alert for a long time, Imperials having located their camp once before. There is no ability to say "we're safe enough to relax" and put aside time for bathing, and so most troopers have gone days without cleaning themselves, or even removing their armor as a partial safeguard against heat scanners. Dillon even sleeps wearing the helmet he's inherited from an ill fortuned trooper, the helmet's size and the securement clasps attaching it to Dillon's body armor being just barely off to make wearing it stifling and inconvenient.

But there is one thing that's a real boost to the troopers. The trophies.

Dillon's newest lightsaber is now the second trophy hanging from his belt, there being no more room in his packs for them. Having been obtained a few days ago, it is sleek around the emitter with a decorative inlay carved from bone of some kind, and ending at the pommel with a decorative twist. Dillon had taken it from a moderately armored human Sith with half his face reconstructed by cybernetics. Dillon had tried to keep the fight at a distance, but those Sith are good at closing gaps. Dillon had had no choice but to detonate the charging station next to him which released enough electricity to stun the Sith, Dillon's heavy armor absorbed enough of the released electricity to prevent his own electrocution, and turn the tides. Dillon had taken the chance to bodily throw the Sith through the window of a building Tomas' boys had rigged to blow and gave the word. Just enough of the Sith had been left to confirm the kill, though the severed hand around the lightsaber had kept damage to the trophy to a minimum.

It's not just Dillon that has taken to trophy hunting though. Since the first day with the Zabrak Sith, the troopers of Delta have been claiming the lightsabers of the Sith they killed and now have taken to displaying them on their belts. At first it seemed like a somewhat crude manner of copying Dillon, or of trying to mock the Imperials, but now Dillon sees it as a way for his troopers to hold onto their dignity and spirit in these pressing circumstances. A way for them to show each other that while the Sith are strong enough to kill them, they can still be killed right back. That it's an even playing field.

Being found in possession of a Sith's lightsaber is an instantly executable offense, though, but there isn't a trooper in Delta that would rather live as a prisoner of war than die while taking even one more of those Imperials down with them. And so there are now a couple dozen lightsabers taken from Sith and Sithling alike hanging from the belts of troopers, a display of their defiance. Dillon smiles a little despite himself, and sits down on a felled log with a Datapad.

Dillon has less than a minute alone before Kil shows up next to him and starts an unwanted conversation. "Writing letters again?"

Kil sits down on the log as Dillon sighs and confirms. "That's, what, the fifth one you've written since we went guerilla? You know you can't send any of them while the Imperials are blocking communications."

"Not the point, Kil."

"It kinda is, Dillon. See, letters are meant to be read. So who are they for, anyway."

"Well, one is for my family on the homeworlds." Dillon doesn't see Kil roll his eyes at the continued usage of the word, 'homeworlds.' "And the others are for Lein. We've been sending letters to each other for so long that I've found that writing to her helps keep me grounded. And besides, it'd be nice to have something that can be sent to Lein if I die here on Alderaan."

"That's kinda morbid, Dillon. But I get your point."

"What about you, Kil, have you written to your wife?" Dillon was pretty surprised when Kil came back from his last full leave wearing a wedding ring. It turned out that his teenage sweetheart considered him the one that got away and they tied the knot a few days before Kil had to report for duty again. Dillon had noticed from the wedding pictures that Teena, the bride, is tall and thin, just like Kil, Kil's family, and Teena's family as well. Seems those proportions that make Kil seem so lanky, even with the muscles of a veteran trooper, are the norm on Wren. Maybe it's their gravity or their diet?

"Nah," says Kil dismissively, "We talk to each other with Vids. Costs a little more to send them, but we prefer hearing each other's voices. Besides, I'm a lot better at using my mouth than at using words." Kil pulls himself out of the conversation, his eyes darting sideways as he mentally checks over what he'd just said to see if it made sense. Deciding that it did, he jumps back into the conversation. "Speaking of marriage, when are you and Lein gonna make things official?"

Dillon's typing finger slips, leaving a line of gibberish in the flow of his letter. "Marriage?!"

"Yeah, you two have been seeing each other for five years already. It's about time you guys made a commitment." Hearing these words come from Kil's mouth is about as inexplicable to Dillon as seeing a Jawa singing an opera.

"Lein and I are both on active service. Planning a battle is easier than getting our leave time lined up to see each other. We don't have the time to make a marriage work."

"That didn't stop me," says Kil, who continues on before Dillon can think of an objection to that line of thought, "And it certainly doesn't hurt Tomas' marriage. That guy and his wife are as happy as ever."

Sergeant Tomas Zere had been married and became a father before he ever enlisted; in fact, it was his marriage that caused him to become a trooper. His brother in law had been a dockworker at a space station belonging to a planet the Empire decided to take. Even though he was a civilian, it didn't stop the storming Imperials from blasting a hole in his chest. Tomas' decision to go to war was half for consoling his wife, and half for taking revenge for a man he thought of as family. Even after Tomas had lost a hand and had half his face pulverized by a Sith, Mrs. Zere had respected her husband's decision to keep fighting and has been supportive from the start.

"Even so," says Dillon, waving a hand dismissively, "what's right for one person may not be right for another. I don't even know if Lein would want me for a husband. I mean, she's from some pretty good family after all."

Rolling his eyes once again, Kil begins correcting Dillon. "Look, the two of you are too lovey dovey for her to not like you, and she's not the kind of person that thinks breeding is important. If you popped the question, she'd probably squeal like a little girl and tackle you."

Before Dillon could think up another excuse, the conversation is interrupted by Corporal Ta'say Tilah of Blue Squad with the lightsaber formerly belonging to the Sith that killed Corporal Melanen hanging from her belt. "Sergeant Sammek, Sergeant Major Gauss, Lieutenant Zic is asking for you." The Echani trooper with her pure white hair tied in a complicated ponytail hesitates for a moment, her excitement overcoming her discipline, before whispering, "It seems the Lieutenant has just finished communicating with Havok Squad."

With a quick look at each other, Dillon and Kil hop to their feet and head straight for their commanding officer. Upon finding him standing in the most secluded spot the base camp could allow with Tomas and Lyra, the Lieutenant smiles and says, "We're all here now? Good. Because we're going to be getting on the move soon. It's time for the Republic to strike back."


End file.
